


Adad

by BlueEleanor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Crossover, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Good versus Evil, kids getting revenge, must save the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 72
Words: 400,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEleanor/pseuds/BlueEleanor
Summary: When Bifur stumbles upon an orphaned child of men, he has no idea the enemies hunting her when he adopts her as his own, but when she is stolen away, he will move heaven and earth to find her. Her fate is worse than he fears, for against all knowledge, the Black Numenoreans have returned. As a mighty army readies in secret, only the love of one father may be able to stop them.





	1. A Desperate Flight

### Chapter 1

_**October T.A. 2928** _

Pain. Fear. Desperation. The bloated leeches sucked the heart from Fandes even as they compelled her feet to flee ever northward and westward.

She had to reach home. Every fiber of her being wept for it, clamoring for the distantly remembered sensation of warmth and safety. Home. That shining memory kept her feet from faltering. Her boots disintegrated, and her feet blistered and seeped fluids, yet she pressed onward. Mile upon mile, she scrambled through the wilderness, a petrified and wild animal shy of any soul she might spot on the horizon. 

That person could belong to _them._

Fandes slept secreted away in hollows carved out by tree roots, or she scratched ditches beneath bushes and shrubs with torn, ragged fingernails. Scavenged berries, nuts and leaves were her mainstay. She dared not risk filching more substantial fare. Word of a thief might spread and reach _his_ ears. 

_Never,_ she swore to herself. She would never risk it. Death first. For herself and the babe distending her womb.

Her former self and past life drifted through the deepest recesses of her mind like storybook images, fleeting and beautiful but disconnected. Who was that young, chestnut-haired Dunedain woman who’d pestered her brother, Thanguron—he closest to her in age—into siding with her as she appealed to their father for permission to travel with them to the far-away lands of Gondor at Mithrandir’s behest? That woman, only seventeen in age, had been so full of excitement, burbling with questions as they’d traveled past the Shire and Breeland, south to the Gap of Rohan and on into Gondor. A time of warmth and laughter, it had been. Sun and excitement. 

If she’d had any inkling… 

But how could she? The guilt hung heavy in her chest. Thanguron and her father would likely be alive if she hadn’t accompanied them.

A part of Fandes had realized—reason too late returning to her—that her rabbit-like terror had proved a two-edged sword. It granted wings to her feet despite exhaustion and pain, yet it had also blinded her to the obvious. The Rangers of Ithilien, distant kinsman to her own people, the Dunedain of the North, would certainly have aided her if she’d only thought to seek them. They’d been infinitely nearer at hand when she’d escaped _him_ in southern Gondor. Instead, brutalized past all endurance, her only thoughts upon escape had been of her mother’s arms and her eldest brother, Barhador’s, strong and protective presence.

 _Foolish female._ The scathing condemnation hissed through her mind in _his_ voice, and instantly, his coldly beautiful face flashed before her. Fandes recoiled with a cry, shying away from nothing but air. A violent shake of the head failed to oust the monster from her inner vision. She feared she would never be free of him. 

Her grubby hands rubbed her temples, and Fandes darted a fearful look over her shoulder. All this while, as weeks had melted into months, it had seemed to her that she could feel his dark, vile presence like a thundercloud on the horizon, one that drew ever closer. The very air seemed clogged with a malevolence that dogged her footsteps with the terrifying stench of wrath.

Like his predecessors of yore, _he_ was well versed in the dark arts. Sorcery. Fandes knew its touch first-hand. 

A memory burst to life, and Fandes crashed onto her knees. She panted beyond control, a low whine winning free from the back of her throat. The evening cricket serenade and the empty ribbon of dirt road off her left shoulder vanished. Once again, she was there in a circle of candles and bloody sigils, his strong, corded body forcing her down against hard stone, his teeth biting the flesh of her shoulder and leaving a crescent wound that had scarred, both a punishment for resisting and a brand in one. Once again, she felt his dark magics like ants upon her skin, a sickly prickling sensation as his spells demanded a fertility from her body out of time with her cycles. Then, he’d…

A sudden disturbance set birds to flight in the distance. Fandes froze, one hand to her lips. Him, a part of her wailed, and terror surged through her veins. 

Fandes scrambled away from the road on hands and knees, head and body low to hide in the tall grasses dominating the barren landscape. Unseen thorns and twigs gouged her face and arms. Such small discomforts had long since become of no account to her. Once hidden to the best of her ability, she bent over her bulging belly and wept.

When the moon hung high in the star-filled sky, she once more ventured forth. Fandes could not allow him to catch her. She wouldn’t survive that monster’s touch again with a shred of sanity intact, much less a century or more as he bred her like a broodmare, a fate she knew many daughters of Ithilien endured even now as they were trundled south to Corsair ships bound for Umbar—a land thought to be ruled by the Haradrim. What lurked there in secret was worse than the barbarians. 

Against all knowledge, its lords of old had returned. They grew in strength, breeding selectively to increase their numbers. Black Nứmenóeans, summoned by their master, Sauron. They were raising an army of sorcerous monsters just like _him,_ an army Middle Earth was in no way prepared to face. 

Fandes managed a stumbling lope, a stitch claiming her lower belly. Each breath was labored. _Father, I cannot do this. I’m so scared,_ she told her sire’s shade, for his memory had kept her company many a time during this nightmarish journey, bringing with him both guilt and comfort. She pictured Erthor’s lanky frame beside her, his long legs eating up the ground with an easy jog. His bow protruded over one shoulder, and his long-sword was strapped to his waist where it belonged, no longer separated from his remains by the one who’d murdered him and raped his daughter. 

This…this childish fancy was the sole comfort left to Fandes. Tonight, she felt Erthor’s presence keenly, dispelling a measure of the oppressive blanket of terror that was her constant burden.

 _You can do this, my sweet daughter,_ he seemed to say in his rich tenor. He could well have been a minstrel. Fandes’s mother, Aendes, had often proclaimed as much, for Erthor’s voice had been liquid gold, a throwback to their distant elven ancestors. _Not too far now, and you can rest, my Fandes,_ he promised.

Rest? The illusion of him was dispelled, leaving Fandes in cloying bitterness. Should some miracle occur and she reach home, still she doubted that she’d know either safety or rest again. _He_ would never relent, never let her go. Even discounting the babe and Fandes’s coveted bloodline, a bloodline _he_ swore untainted by the blood of lesser men, his pride must be pricked. She’d humiliated him before his peers by not only escaping but eluding him for months. She’d outwitted him, and that he would never let stand. 

The thought of his terrible retribution should he ever lay hands upon her again was enough motivation to keep her jogging long after the stitch in her belly developed jagged teeth and gnawed across her abdomen with glee. It was only as a sudden gush of liquid splattered down her legs that she realized the truth. The babe was coming. 

The crushing realization of failure nearly dropped her to her knees. Fandes swayed, eyes blindly locked upon the puddle between her feet. She wouldn’t be able to warn her people that Mithrandir’s fears were correct—a Shadow _was_ stealing over Gondor. Mordor’s engines of war were preparing in secret. 

The Rangers of Ithilien would realize…wouldn’t they? Surely they would send word to the Gray Wizard. They must. But would they recognize the danger in time?

Ai, but who would sound the alarm that the accursed Black Númenóreans had returned, too? Who knew of this but Fandes and the captive women headed for Umbar?

Fandes tried to ignore her body and press onward, but as hours passed, the battle turned ever against her. Labor was a ravening beast in its own right, and it would not be denied. Fandes clumsily dragged herself deeper into the brush when her legs would support her no longer. A hiding place. She needed a hiding—

A pain more intense than any of its predecessors ripped through her womb. Her forehead dropped onto one arm as she panted and whimpered, any hope of her happy ending turning to bitter ashes. She would not see Aendes again, nor Barhador. The babe would either die here in the wilderness or, if her instincts proved true and he was near, it would be claimed and groomed into a dark creature just like its father. And Fandes… Her future should she survive unfolded before her with graphic and chilling clarity. 

_Eru…_ Devoid of hope from that source, for He’d not intervened to spare her father or brother, Fandes prayed for death. Surely there was a chance childbirth would save child and mother both, for it could not be past October. The babe was nearly a month early. _Mandos, hear my plea…_


	2. Three Dwarves and a Baby

### Chapter 2

_**30 October TA 2928** _

‘Twas his cousin who heard it first. 

Bifur grunted as Bofur’s hand flew into the air, halting Nori’s banter mid-word. “Did ye hear that, lads?” Bofur asked, his head cocked to one side until the tip of his winged hat brushed one shoulder. 

Ridiculous, that hat, but Bifur knew saying as much would fall on deaf ears. Like as not, his cousin would one day be buried in it, a thought that amused Bifur to no end. 

Bifur focused on the early morning sounds, wondering what had caught Bofur’s interest. Truth be told, this patch of road—naught more than a ribbon of dirt, really—was devoid of life. The only structure of any note for miles was a squat, ramshackle construction aptly named The Forsaken Inn.

Hardly enough souls lived in these parts to merit making the trip to sell the two toymakers’ wares. But with children in the picture, Bifur knew they’d be returning in the future. If even one child’s life would be brightened by their creations, ‘twas reason enough to retrace their steps next year, lack of profit notwithstanding. 

A hoarse cry broke the silence and set birds to flight from a tree not far up the road. Bofur immediately headed towards the sound to investigate, a curious whistle warbling from his lips. Bofur’s hand, Bifur noted, was tight about the haft of his mattock. 

“Bandits?” Nori murmured. The thief’s eyes narrowed as he searched the vicinity, his auburn hair taking fire where the morning sun struck it just so. 

“Out here?” Bifur responded, one hand stroking his gray-streaked beard. Like most of his fellow Longbeards, he wore his beard of ample length to tuck into the big leather belt at his waist. 

Bifur stalked after his too-curious cousin, nostrils flared and eyebrows low. His hand rotated the boar spear within his grasp. All of iron, it was, forged by his sire after a similar weapon with a wooden shaft had failed Bifur during a night raid by orcs decades back. 

A small frown tugged his lips downward. Just because the likelihood of bandits was piddling did not mean Nori might not have the right of it. Such a poor land often produced desperation in its people. Desperate people, he had cause to know, were often as not dangerous.

Bofur reached the source of the disturbance well ahead of the other two dwarves. As his cousin stiffened and turned to Bifur with shock and alarm on his bearded face, Bifur’s relaxed pace accelerated to a jog. Bofur handled life’s events with aplomb. To see Bofur wearing _that_ expression told him the situation was grave, indeed.

“I’m not liking this,” Nori muttered at his side as the two hastened to their fellow. 

_Aye,_ Bifur silently agreed.

Bofur knelt down in the dry sea of grass a short distance south of the road. All but the crown of his head disappeared from view. “We need a healer, lads,” Bofur shouted, a wee hint of panic entering his voice. 

A healer? Bifur and Nori exchanged a short look and ran.

What they found appalled Bifur to his core. Nori, too, he suspected based upon the thief’s sharp inhale. ‘Twas clearly a lady, and a filthy one at that. So covered in grime, she was, that there was no knowing the color of skin or hair. Her clothes were mere rags crusted with dirt, her boots naught but bands of ragged leather about her ankles, and the stench coming off of her was enough to sear the nostrils. She writhed with a woman’s pains, struggling to give birth to the child she carried.

Bifur set down his spear and crooned wordlessly as she flinched away. A hard look from Bifur, and Nori nodded minutely. Aye, and Nori would be watching for any sign of the lass’s husband or the ruffians who had left her in such straits. This was no orc’s doing, for if she’d tangled with one of those creatures, she’d be pockmarked with bite wounds, to boot. 

Bifur doubted they’d be so fortunate as to lay hands on the scoundrel or scoundrels responsible for her condition, but by Durin, his fists ached to deliver the thrashing deserved. Unlikely he’d have the pleasure, but as his dam, Suffia, oft said, hope grew like wildflowers on a spring day.

Bifur’s anger soared as he took in more of the lass’s deplorable state. Beneath the grime and sweat, she was naught but skin and bones. Her belly protruded horribly, and from where he squatted, he could see blood pooling in the grasses between her legs. “Mahal.”

Bofur’s eyes lifted to his, and Bifur’s chest tightened at the message he read upon his cousin’s face. Doubtless repeating Bofur’s actions, Bifur pressed two fingers to her neck. His shoulders slumped at what he found. Her pulse was thready and weak. This lassie was not going to make it. Not without aid, and where could they hope to find a healer worth mentioning out here? 

The cousins exchanged matching frowns. ‘Twas up to them, though little hope did Bifur have of any good outcome. He’d fair trade his beard—well, mayhap not _that_ —or the wealth left to his family after a generation-long exile for a satchel of medical supplies. 

No sense delaying. Hands accustomed to delicate work with knife and chisel tore the lassie’s legs from her skirts with no finesse. At her feeble signs of distress, he crooned a lullaby in Khuzdul. Frustration surged. He’d not been able to utter a word in Common since he’d taken an ax blow to the head, and wrestle as he might, the syllables refused to come. That his tone yet allayed some of her fear gratified him, for he’d no wish to terrorize her in what might be her final moments.

“Nori,” he said, keeping his voice soft. 

“Aye?” Dry grass crunched as the thief made his way closer. 

“Anything?”

“Nay. No sign as anyone was with her, and there’s not a soul in sight in either direction. What could she be doing out here alone?”

‘Twas a good question, but they had more pressing concerns. “We’ll be needing milk.”

“Milk?” Nori rocked upon his heels, eyes darting from the pathetic state of the lassie to Bifur and back again. Bifur’s face hardened. Should a miracle occur and the child live, he’d not lose this babe because they’d not planned for the possibility. 

Brows lifting, Nori bobbed his head once. “Right.” Nori’s eyes narrowed as they swept the road behind them. “The goat herder,” he decreed. “He’s sure to have a nanny in the bunch.”

Not turning from the woman, Bifur drew his money pouch from his pocket and tossed it to his friend. 

“Keep it,” Nori said with heavy exasperation. Bifur’s money pouch thumped him in the back. “I’ll get the goat. I’ll even _pay_ for it.”

Bifur almost smiled. Dori would be most pleased with Nori’s generosity. Though things were looking up with Thorin’s Hall flourishing as it was, none of them forgot the lean existence they’d been born into. Nori had been most tight-fisted with any wealth to come his way for as long as Bifur could remember. Those early years were etched in the thief’s mind. Nori ever feared scarcity, and mostly on behalf of his youngest brother, Ori. 

“Too much blood,” Bofur murmured, keeping to their native tongue of Khuzdul with a watchful look at the lass. Then in Common, Bofur told the lass, “Never you fear, lass. You’re safe now. No harm will come to you with such mighty dwarves as ourselves to protect you.”

Bofur’s attempt at humor never penetrated the lassie’s delirium, but Bifur deemed it a noble enough attempt. If ever a lass needed Bofur’s easy chatter and kindness, ‘twas this one. 

The lass weakened as the sun climbed high into the sky. Bofur coaxed her non-stop with encouragement while Bifur prepared for the babe’s arrival, beside himself for he’d never witnessed the birth of more than a pup or a foal before. His clean, spare jerkin would serve for swaddling, his sharpest knife had been sanitized with a shot of whiskey, and his hands cleaned as much as possible with the limited water at hand. 

Mahal, what else? 

As the lass’s bleeding increased, and her efforts to eject the child from her womb diminished, pity touched Bifur’s heart. Poor wee lambs. Naught about this was right. How could the lass have ended up here? 

The sun began its descent. The woman had been in hard labor for hours. At Bifur’s urging, Bofur had lifted her to a squatted position, his strength holding her upright in place of the birthing stool dwarrowdams oft demanded for themselves. But though they did all they could think to assist, the bleeding persisted and her efforts to expel the babe from her body waned. 

‘Twas as Bifur began to despair that the lass seemed to inexplicably rally. The fearful lines that had creased her features from the first softened, and she gasped what Bifur could barely make out as, “Father?” 

Bofur’s eyes lifted to Bifur’s. “Well, now, I’ve been called many a thing in my time, but I’ve not had the pleasure to wear that title,” Bofur sallied, but the strain on his face belied his easy tone. 

There was no response from the lass, and Bifur had not expected one. Whatever it was that had cleared the fear from her face had also filled it with longing. Her eyes opened, fixing upon air beyond Bifur’s left shoulder. 

“With you?” she slurred. “P’mise?” A ragged inhale. “One more,” she mumbled, eyelids sliding closed. “One…” 

There was no other warning. The lassie bore down with a strength he’d not thought left to her. Bifur’s breath hitched at his first glimpse of the crown of the baby’s head. “Aye,” he whispered in Khuzdul. “Just a little more, and we’ll have ye safe.” _Mahal, let the babe not be stillborn._

Two more pushes, and the babe slipped from its mother’s womb like magic. Aye, Bifur thought, that was what it was, magic. Wonder filled him as he beheld the wrinkled, red-faced and fluid-smeared babe for the first time. A girl, she was, and Bifur discovered suddenly that the two hands Mahal had fashioned for him were not enough. He struggled to hold the babe, to tie off and cut the cord, to wipe the babe clean and wrap it in his jerkin. Aye, and with the child suddenly rousing and crying in a thin voice, the pitiful sound tearing at his heart.

Only when Bifur had the tiny babe wrapped and held to his chest with one big hand did he allow his attention to return to the mother. His throat tightened at what he found. The grime-covered face was slack. Gray eyes like a winter sky stared blankly, devoid of life. 

Bofur cleared his throat, his eyes bright with unshed tears, as he eased the dam’s body to the ground. Bifur reached one hand towards her, but Bofur shook his head once. “Nay, Cousin. ‘Tis done. Mandos has her now.” Ragged, Bofur’s words, but intent. 

Bifur’s gaze dropped to the wee bairn, and one blunt finger drew down her cheek. The little lassie wailed, her face red and her wee fists shaking with the force of her distress. Bifur hummed, a futile attempt to comfort her as she cried and cried.

What were they to do with the babe now?

OoOoOo

Bifur could not mask the strength of his relief when Nori returned at last with the nanny goat. Mahal, he’d never seen such a welcome sight, even with the additional two bleating kid goats squirming in Nori’s arms.

“Nori,” Bofur said, rising to his feet. “We said one goat. We’re not needing a whole family of them.”

The thief threw Bofur a harried look. “Don’t be giving me grief. That goat herder was completely unreasonable. Said if we wanted the nanny, we had to take the kids as well.” Then in a mutter, “And had to pay for the privilege, too.” 

Nori deposited the nanny’s offspring at his feet, then he straightened, his fists finding his. His pause was ripe with expectation. With a wave of his hands, he plainly ordered them to get on with things, his gesture encompassing the babe in Bifur’s arms. 

Bifur shifted his weight upon the rock beneath him. They had milk. Of a sort. But how to get it into their lassie’s belly? 

After a stretch of awkward silence, Bofur turned hopeful eyes Nori’s way. “Ori’s young. Surely you remember—”

“Our dam fed him,” Nori said, waving both hands. The tips of his ears flushed red. “Who do ye take me for? Dori?” 

Bifur scowled. The babe’s cries had died down, but it grated worse than the wails had, for it meant he’d failed to provide the wee lamb with what she needed. 

The silence stretched on and on. All three shot furtive looks among themselves. 

“We must do something, lads,” Bofur said. 

That was when Nori snapped his fingers. “I have it.”

OoOoOo

The crisis was averted, the dilemma solved.

Days passed. The three bachelors took turns caring for the infant as they trekked to the town of Bree. Bifur, it had been, to decree they should take her to men to be raised, for what did dwarves know of raising a female of another people? 

The dwarves discovered quickly that the babe was nowhere near as hardy as their own offspring. She took chill much more easily and required the gentlest of handling. And while such a thing was, Mahal willing, an event far distant, Nori had mused that first night that the lassie would grow up, wed, and die before any of them reached old age. 

A sobering fact, it had been, and one that had turned them silent the rest of the night. The knowledge that she’d die before them was enough to settle the matter in their minds. The lassie had to be delivered to men. 

So. Bree. None of the three would tolerate the thought of taking her to The Forsaken Inn, for they would not allow such abject poverty to be this lassie’s fate. By Durin, they’d not stand for it. As for finding her family… Weeell, they were a mite determined to avert that as well, given the dam’s condition.

Each fed the wee lass using a glove Nori had cleverly altered by poking a small hole at the tip of the pinkie. A more pathetic nipple none of them had seen, and a goodly amount of milk was lost as it seeped through the seams, but when the babe latched on and suckled, when her belly filled with the warm goat’s milk, relief and satisfaction touched them all. She lost weight in those first days, and aye, they’d been beside themselves with worry, but despite everything, her sleep seemed that of contentment and her burbles after a feeding agreed with the assertion. Mayhap babies of men lost weight after birth? Baffling, but so long as she suckled her fill, they manage not to tear their beards out with their fretting. 

Bofur regaled the baby with tales the entire week-long trip, and Bifur chortled to himself to see Bofur’s animated face. That their lass slept more than anything did naught to deter his cousin. Nay, Bofur lived for those brief moments when the infant’s big gray eyes would open to the world around her. Bifur was sure he caught her staring up at Bofur in bemusement a time or two. ‘Twas the hat, Bifur was convinced.

OoOoOo

A fist of days passed, and with each, the three drew nearer to Bree. Bifur’s certainty that they’d decided the best course for their lass developed large cracks. Doubts assailed his mind.

He’d not ever be forgetting the babe’s entrance into the world, the wonder of witnessing such a thing himself. ‘Twas not a male’s place to be present under normal circumstances, so like as not, he’d never be witnessing such a thing again.

That first night, he’d fed her from the glove, and he’d gently burped her with Nori’s coaching—that much, the thief had remembered from Ori’s early years. Such warmth had filled Bifur as he’d held the lass. She was such a wee thing.

Bifur thought about the second night, too, when Nori had held the crying baby out to him with panic upon his face, the wee lassie’s too-thin arms shaking in the air with the force of her red-faced howls. Bifur’s heart had clenched, for she’d calmed at his touch. The lassie didn’t see the frightening visage of a dwarf with an ax embedded in his skull. Nay, she saw a dwarf she trusted, and he could not help softening to the lass all the more.

Dwarves were possessive by nature, and Bifur no different. As the days progressed and Bree drew nearer, each time her fist curled about his smallest finger, Bifur wondered. Could he simply hand the baby over to strangers? What if the men did not appreciate her as they should? What if she was left hungry? Or cold? Could he trust a man to care for her properly?

OoOoOo

His cousin rounded on him in disbelief. “Ye cannot be serious, Bifur.”

Mayhap he should have worked up to the subject instead of hitting his cousin upon the head with it like an anvil. Bifur halted in the middle of the dirt road. From where he stood, Bree’s wooden gates were visible in the distance. They seemed a pitiful effort at defense, Bifur thought of a sudden. Bree lacked the security stone offered. Vulnerable, it looked, and he liked it not. 

“Aye, and why not?” Bifur asked, his voice adopting a low growl, one he abandoned when the wee babe fretted. Bifur jiggled her gently, a trick he’d learned in the last week, and was gratified to see her return to slumber. That she drifted back to sleep told him he’d not yet need to deal with changing her nappies. _Good._ With any luck, that could wait until they made camp that night. 

A tinge of guilt formed in his belly, for they could be enjoying Bree’s comforts this night, but Bifur, having finally come to the realization that he was not about to relinquish the babe to anyone, found himself unwilling to risk the men objecting to a dwarf keeping one of their own. Mahal forbid they try to take her from him, for he’d not allow that without bloodshed. 

Nori said nothing. The thief pursed his lips and gazed towards Bree with narrowed eyes. 

But Bofur sighed. “She belongs with her own people. The Valar know the lass is special to me, too, but she needs to be among her own.”

Aye, mayhap. Bifur heard Bofur well, and a week prior, he’d agreed. _Och,_ but that week had changed everything. Bifur had already been fond of the lass—Mahal, he’d delivered her. But that affection had grown as he’d cared for her. She trusted him. 

With each moment together, a hunger had awakened in him he’d not known he possessed, an empty yearning for a family of his own, something not likely under normal circumstances. With dwarves outnumbering their females three to one, ‘twas unlikely any dwarrowmaid would take a second look at a dwarf such as himself. Unable to speak aught but Khuzdul and Iglishmêk, a toymaker of no real wealth or standing… Nay, he’d not be siring any dwarflings of his own.

“Ye saw her dam,” Bifur said at last. “Where was her family, Bofur? What could drive a lass to venture into the wilds so unprepared? She must have known herself pregnant. I’ll not be letting the same happen to my Saldís.”

“Saldís?” Bofur asked, eyes widening.

Bifur’s bushy brows descended low over his eyes. “Aye. A perfectly fine name.”

“For a _dwarf,”_ Bofur stressed. 

“She’ll be raised among us,” Bifur defended. He’d not have his Saldís feeling more ostracized by her name. ‘Twas going to be challenging enough being the only lass of men in a mountain full of dwarves. Her name would link her to them, he vowed.

“Ye cannot turn her into a dwarrowdam, Bifur.”

“That is not—”

Nori snort interrupted Bifur’s hot words of denunciation. The thief’s lips curled with amusement. “Like listening to myself with Dori,” he drawled. To Bifur, Nori said, “Aye. Saldís is a fine name.”

“You do not agree with him?” Bofur asked. 

Nori rocked upon his heels, thumbs tucked into his wide leather belt. With a sigh, “Let’s consider some hard facts, lads.” Nori slipped his finger beneath one of Saldís’s tiny hands, and the sleeping babe’s fingers curled around it. “Like as not, if we give her to men, this bonny lass will wind up in an orphanage.” 

Bifur was pleased to see his cousin stiffen with as much outrage at the idea as himself. Bifur’s hold on the babe turned protective, and Bofur’s brown-green eyes rushed to the tiny, sleeping babe. Bofur stepped closer, one finger brushing across her cheek. 

“You’ve seen him with her,” Nori said in a softer voice. “She’ll not find a better father.”

Nay, she would not. Bifur was committed to ensuring that. 

Bofur was silent for a long stretch, but at last, his gaze lifted to Bifur’s, a twinkle in his eyes. “Always did hope to be an uncle. I rather thought it would be Bombur seeing the deed done.”

Nori barked in laughter, and Bifur snorted as the tension drained from his frame. He’d not wished to argue with his cousin, but his mind was set. Mayhap ‘twas selfish of him, keeping the lass, but Mahal knew he loved her already. He did not have it in him to let her go. 

His eyes closed as his head bowed over the babe, his nose brushing the fine black down upon her head. It would not be an easy life. Dwarves were suspicious and temperamental. But by Durin, he’d make up for any hurt she felt at being different. 

Aye, and he’d see to it she met her own people as she aged. She could accompany Bofur and himself as they peddled their wares. 

He frowned darkly. If any lad wished to court his Saldís, he’d be proving himself. By Durin, he would. 

Contentment filled him. ‘Twas his experience that not all men could be trusted to care for their womenfolk as they should, nor even their children. Saldís would have better. She would have an adâd who knew her worth and counted himself fortunate to name her his daughter. 

Aye.


	3. Daughter

### Chapter 3

Three dwarves stood lined up before their liege within the Hall of Judgment, a bleating family of goats at their feet. The nanny tugged upon the rope circling her neck, the lead of which was held in the fist of the hatted member of their party. The two kid goats gamboled in small circles about their dam, their small hooves rapping out happy patterns on the smooth stone floor. 

Bifur held his daughter, jaw set and chin lifted though inwardly he was dismayed at how this matter had unfolded. Thorin was a right good king, and that was no exaggeration, but Bifur would have preferred better timing and mayhap privacy before informing Thorin about his newest subject. Having just arrived home, the three dwarves had not even crossed the length of the First Hall but word had reached Thorin that they’d returned with a child of men. Half-way across the hall, they’d been, when Thorin’s resulting summons had reached them. 

Nori had summed it up quite well when he muttered, “Worst gossips in all of Arda, our kindred.” 

And so here they stood, shabby, aromatic, and tired with dozens of wealthy merchants and nobles looking on from the sidelines. The babe slept—a blessing, for sure—but Bifur’s nose detected soiled nappies. He dared to hope she’d not piddled through to his shirt, but experience said that wish was likely futile. 

Nay, this was not the way he’d hoped to present Saldís to his king. 

Thorin paced before them, hands on his hips, black hair with its dusting of gray contained in neat braids. Thorin’s boots were not new but in good repair, and his blue tunic and dark brown trousers were of fine quality. No circlet adorned their king’s brow, for Thorin had sworn long ago not to wear such a device until their homeland of Erebor had been reclaimed. 

Thorin’s steps halted, his boot heels sounding with finality. The whispers among the merchants and nobles abated. “She is of the race of men,” Thorin said softly, his blue eyes finding Bifur. 

Bifur had naught to say to that. ‘Twas true, after all. 

A flash of annoyance passed over his king’s face. With a sigh, Thorin said, “Bifur, explain this to me.”

From the corner of one eye, Bifur saw his cousin’s head turn his way. Bofur cleared his throat. “Well, see, it’s like this—”

“I asked Bifur,” Thorin interrupted, a touch of dry amusement appearing on his face. 

Aye, well, Thorin knew his cousin, Bifur thought. Always ready with a glib tongue, always ready to defend his family. Bifur was fortunate in his cousins, and that was Durin’s truth. 

“You’ve told me the circumstances of her birth,” Thorin continued. “But I’ve yet to hear why the babe remains in your care. Why, Bifur, have you done this?”

Thorin was not believing the logical list of reasons that Bifur had already presented. His king was too perceptive by far at times, Bifur acknowledged with an inward sigh. 

“The truth of the matter, Thorin,” Bifur admitted with a touch of shame for his weakness, “is that I could not stand to let her go. She’s of men, aye, but she’s my daughter. I cannot see her any other way. Aulë delivered her into these very hands,” he said, lifting one in remembrance of the event. 

Thorin’s head canted to one side, his blue eyes intent. Words were slow to come. “I suspect the wise thing to do would be to order her taken from you and delivered to the nearest town of men.”

Bifur stiffened, denial welling up inside of him. Bofur and Nori shifted where they stood, each darting looks at himself and Thorin. 

Compassion stirred upon his king’s face. Thorin twisted to bring his sister, Dís, into view. A silent message passed between them. “But I find I don’t much care for wisdom in this matter,” Thorin said, once again facing forward. “I, too, have seen the orphanages of men. I’ve seen the ill-fed urchins left neglected upon their streets.” 

Bofur sidled closer to Bifur in solidarity as Bifur dared to hope. Was Thorin saying what Bifur prayed he was saying? 

Thorin stepped closer, one hand lifting to settle over Bifur’s where he held his daughter. The king stared at the infant for a long stretch. “So be it,” he said softly. Then firmer, eyes lifting to Bifur, “I expect an adoption braid to be plaited in her hair…” a wry twitch of the lips, “…as soon as she has enough to support it. Emblems of our House and our protection as well.” Thorin’s hand fell. “Go, Bifur. Take your new daughter home.”

‘Twas done. Elated, Bifur bowed low to his king, his daughter cradled to his chest. His steps from the hall were a daze, they were. A smile slowly stretched across his lips. 

Saldís was his.

OoOoOo

_  
**January TA 2930 - Saldís 1 yr old**  
_

Balfur’s snickers deterred him not a bit as Bifur tickled Saldís’s wee feet. The baby giggled in delight, squealing and rolling about on the fur rug with her gray eyes fixed upon her adâd. Just over a year old, she was now, and babbling nonsense from the time the sun rose to sunset. 

“You’re going to have you’re hands full with that one,” his sire warned, still chortling. 

Aye, Bifur hoped so. 

“Fatherhood suits you,” Balfur said.

Bifur knew his smile was a wee bit smug as he glanced at his sire. He’d adored every minute of his daughter’s first year, from the sleepless nights when she’d demanded her belly be filled at odd hours, to the coos she made as she fouled her nappies. 

“Ye could be having more,” Balfur hinted none-too-subtly.

Bifur’s brow twitched. Aye, and here his sire went again. Bifur had not expected to ever father his own dwarflings, but since adopting his bonny lassie, not one, but _two_ dwarrowmaids who had never given him a second look now seemed to watch him as if he were a cask of priceless wine. They were… _interested._ Defied belief, it did. Bifur had to shake his head at that.

Bofur and Nori had seen this and decided to avail themselves of their new “lass bait”, borrowing his daughter any time they ventured to the market. 

Daft, the both of them.

Bifur was content. He had no desire to wed.

OoOoOo

_  
**4 June TA 2933 - Saldís 4**  
_

“Adâd!”

Bifur hastily set aside his whittling knife as the door to his quarters burst open with the vigor of Saldís’s exuberant return. His black-haired daughter, a lively lass of four years now, barreled across the floor to throw herself into his arms. His dam, Suffia, entered at a more sedate pace, her lips curled in a gentle smile. Affection beamed from her face. 

Like himself, his dam had dark brown hair streaked with gray, but where his eyes were the color of churned earth, hers were a startling green. Though many would claim Suffia’s beauty long departed with her weathered face marked by lines of care, to Bifur, his mother yet shined with the force of her gentle spirit. ‘Twas a deeper beauty, to his mind, than one of youthful skin and perfect features. 

“Guess who we saw, Adâd,” his Saldís jabbered in Khuzdul the instant she pulled back from his embrace. She sat on his knee with one hand wrapped about the single thick braid suspended within the middle of his beard. As ever, he had no need to prod, for his excited daughter continued on without pause. “Uncle Nori,” she announced, one hand waving. She bobbed up and down on her hind end, the braid declaring her adoption and House bouncing in tandem. Her gray eyes, framed by thick black lashes, beamed up at him. 

“And Ori,” his dam added, one hand smoothing down her soft beard. Suffia’s green eyes lifted to Bifur. “Though I suspect your daughter is more entranced by Nori’s questionable tales than Ori’s recitals of our king’s vaunted lineage.”

Bifur responded with the twitch of an eyebrow. His daughter did dote upon the middle Ri brother. Dori, too, truth be told, but his lass had little patience for history or dry prose, giving Ori little chance of eliciting equal enthusiasm during his visits. 

“Why don’t we let your adâd get cleaned up, and we’ll prepare lunch, _Gêdul.”_ Suffia waggled fingers at Saldís. _Joyful,_ his mother had labeled his daughter early on. An appropriate name, indeed. 

Saldís pecked him on the cheek, jumped off Bifur’s lap, and hurried to take his dam’s hand. Both vanished into the kitchen. 

With a grin dancing about his lips, Bifur collected his knives and projects and moved them into the cabinet he kept locked when not in use. From the moment his Saldís had figured out how to toddle forward on her own two feet, there’d been no halting her. Always curious, his lassie, and always poking into things. ‘Twas the truth, with her big gray eyes and mop of black hair, he was hard-pressed to discipline the lassie as he should. It fair broke his heart when he scolded her and she responded with big, soppy tears and a woebegone expression.

He’d just finished locking his tools away when a sudden, girlish scream preceded a loud bang from within the kitchens. Bifur raced towards the cry, concerned yet not truly alarmed. His Saldís was often in such a hurry to experience life, his wee lassie was prone to mishaps. Suffia’s voice came, drowned out by the furor of Saldís’s wails. 

He relaxed upon finding both dam and daughter in one piece. A teapot lay on its side upon the floor, water chugging out of it. A squat stool stood beside the copper cooking stove. _Mahal. My stubborn Saldís strikes again._ Bifur could well see what must have occurred, for he’d caught his daughter attempting to “help Adâd” before. Saldís had ignored his command and tried to pour from the heavy teapot. 

“How bad?” he asked, hastening to collect his daughter from his dam and settle her in his arms. Saldís buried her face in his beard, her wee frame shaking with her sobs. 

Suffia gingerly held the lass’s hand aloft for his inspection. Bifur growled low in his throat. The back of Saldís’s left hand was scalded, right enough, and badly at that. It was sure to leave quite the scar. His mother retrieved a chunk of ice from the ice chest and wrapped it in a cloth. Bifur accepted it and placed it upon the site of the burn before he hurried them off in search of Oin. 

‘Twas one fact he was coming to learn—if one had children, one gained a deeper familiarity with the healers. Before Saldís, he’d known Oin to put name to. Now, he listed the healer among his closest friends. 

An hour later, his daughter had been soothed, the burn tended, and his money pouch a wee bit lighter for his daughter’s latest escapade. The sight of the wound, however, did give him pause. Oh, not that he worried it wouldn’t heal as it should. Nay, it was the shape that set him to thinking, for by some odd twist of fortune, it was the exact match for the Khuzdul rune for endurance. 

A chill of foreboding stole through him, one he did his best to cast aside. _Bifur, you old fool, ‘tis naught but coincidence._

Mayhap he’d been listening to too many of Nori’s stories. With a snort, Bifur kissed Saldís’s cheek. 

Fatherhood. ‘Twas the greatest adventure of them all.

OoOoOo

_  
**11 November TA 2935 – Saldís 7**  
_

“Adâd, why do I have to be different?” 

Big gray eyes stared up at him. At seven now, Bifur’s youngling was slender as any child of men. Her bonny face was angular, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, and his lassie’s black hair formed a widow’s peak such as had never graced a dwarf’s head. Aye, she looked nothing like the dwarflings she joined for lessons each morning under the watchful care of Viggi, one of Thorin Hall’s respected scholars. 

Bifur had been expecting this conversation. Viggi had warned him of Saldís’s bold questions, her growing need for answers. Like as not, she’d begun to realize her peers would remain children for decades yet, while she…would not. Even her friend Finnur, a bright lad of nineteen years, would be left behind as she matured.

‘Twas no easy thing to be different. Bifur had tasted but a sip of that brew after the injury that left him unable to speak Common. The words were there, rattling around in his brain, but they refused to pass his lips. 

He lifted his daughter, setting her on his knee. As ever, she leaned into him, fiddling with his beard braid. Aye, he’d been expecting this, but he’d not quite determined how to say all that was within his heart or if it was time to share what little he knew of her past. ‘Twas the scar that remained upon the back of her left hand that decided his course.

_“Iridzu du-khuzd,”_ he began. (You are a dwarf.) “Adopted into our House and my daughter.” 

“But I’m not,” she burst. “The others all have beards, and I don’t. They’re more stronger, too.” She lifted her scarred hand. _“They_ could have picked up the pot without any protection and never burned. I’m _weak._ I get _cold.”_ She blew a strand of wavy black hair from her face, arms flailing with her words. “Did you know Fraeg can lift his sire’s broadsword? He’s a year younger than me, Adâd!”

Bifur could not help it. His lips twitched. Saldís fairly vibrated with outrage. Like a riled, spitting cat, she was.

“Adâd!” Her bottom lip poked out, and her thin arms crossed before her chest. “It isn’t funny.”

Chortling, he hugged a resisting Saldís closer. Then lifting her scarred hand, he asked, “What does this say, _Gêdul?”_

“It’s a scar, Adâd.”

She was certainly as stubborn as a dwarf. “What does it say?” he asked again, his voice insistent for all its gentleness. 

Pursing her lips, she stared down at the back of her left hand. “Endurance,” Saldís said at last. 

Bifur smoothed a hand from his daughter’s widow’s peak to the end of her braid and then cupped her jaw. “Aye. And what is one of the characteristics of the Khazâd?”

Saldís stopped fidgeting with the discolored flesh of her scar, her brow creasing as her gaze lifted to his. 

“Nay, this is no trick question,” he said before she could.

Gray eyes narrowed in thought, and her head tilted to one side. “Stubbornness,” she finally decreed.

Bifur guffawed. “Aye, that is true, right enough. What more?”

“Well…” She straightened, fingers interlacing upon her lap. “Aulë wanted children to love and teach.”

“Aye.”

“He wanted his creation to be strong and able to…” He saw the light dawn.

“Aye?”

“Endure,” she said, a slow smile taking her.

“Aye. That he did, my Saldís.” His index finger pointed at her chest. “Ye may not have the outer shell, but in your heart, you’re one of us. Never forget that. ‘Tis no accident ye bear that scar, I’m thinking.”

Small arms threw themselves about his neck, and his cheek received a child’s sweet kiss. “I love you, Adâd.”

Bifur’s eyes closed as he squeezed her tight. “I love you too, my sweet lassie. I love you, too.”

OoOoOo

_  
**18 February TA 2937 - Saldís 8**  
_

Saldís waited only until her _ugmil’amad,_ Suffia, had returned to her loom before she set aside the scrolls containing her lessons. Gathering the fabric of her favorite blue skirt in her hands to prevent tripping, Saldís snuck out the front door.

Adâd would not be happy with her for disobeying, but despite his assurances, each day she felt her _different_ -ness more keenly. Merchants of the race of men were selling their wares as they did twice a year in Frerin’s Court just outside the doors of Thorin’s Hall, and Saldís was determined that this year, she’d see them. She had to know for herself if she was truly as strange as she feared. 

She didn’t wish to leave Adâd and the dwarves— she’d _never_ let that happen—but curiosity and the driving need to know there were others like herself goaded her past bearing. Adâd’s decree or not, she was going to venture into that marketplace. 

Besides, she reasoned, Nori would be there. And Prince Kíli, too. Saldís never passed up the opportunity to watch the younger prince. 

The market was a cauldron of activity. Colorful tents rustled in the wind, and the citizens of Thorin’s Hall were present in large numbers. Saldís blended in quite well with the dwarrowdams with her woolen skirt of Durin blue, pale linen tunic embroidered by Dori with bluebells along the neck and sleeves, and heavy leather boots. Still, she avoided the Hall’s guards, knowing they’d object if they spied her since she was both a minor and without escort. Leery of those keen eyes, she snuck into the thickest crush of bodies and stayed there.

She was gawking at the strange, close-shaven features of a man displaying fabrics in exotic patterns when his eyes, a shade she’d never seen before that blended greens, golds, and blues, crossed her path. The man’s words stuttered to a halt, his brows shot upwards, and his face filled with questions. 

“Are ye daft?” A firm hand wrapped around her wrist, and the dwarfling owning the hand shot her a scolding look. With a suspicious glower at the man, he dragged her from sight.

“Finnur,” Saldís complained.

“Does your sire know you’re here?” her friend asked, his frown fierce behind his fuzzy red beard. 

“Just because you’re older doesn’t mean—” 

“Nay, he doesn’t,” Finnur concluded in a huff. 

“You don’t get to say what I do,” Saldís growled at him, their noses inches apart. 

“And what do ye think you’ll do if one of _them,”_ he growled in return with a toss of the head, “decides ye should be returned to men? Did ye think of that?”

Saldís’s anger dribbled away, and she gnawed on her lower lip.

Finnur’s hand swatted her on the back, almost toppling her. “Stop that. You’ll nibble it right off.”

She whacked him in return upon the chest. “I’m not _that_ fragile.”

Muscular arms crossed before a chest already substantial in girth, and his chin jutted out. Standing as much on tip-toes as his boots allowed, he scanned the vicinity. “You are too little to be out here alone.”

“I’m the same size as you,” she objected as he again claimed her wrist and tugged her between shoppers. 

“Younger, then,” Finnur said with lofty superiority.

“We’re in the same class,” Saldís growled. 

Finnur stopped. A blunt finger poked Saldís in her chest. “You’re only seven. An _infant.”_

“I’m eight, you dunderhead.” She wasn’t an infant!

Finnur smirked. “I’m nineteen,” he proclaimed with a thumb to his chest.

Saldís ripped her wrist free. With a smirk of her own, “And being bested by an _infant_ in your studies.”

Finnur’s cheeks reddened, but before he could respond, a shadow fell over them both. Saldís deflated to find Finnur’s blond-haired older brother—a dwarf nearly old enough to be counted a warrior—staring down at them. Now, she’d never get her questions answered! The brief glimpses she’d had of men hadn’t come close to answering her questions.

Finnin’s blue eyes narrowed as he stepped to place himself between Saldís and the nearest booth. “What are you thinking, _Dushin-Mizim?_ (Black opal) Have you no sense?” He prodded both Saldís and Finnur forward. “To the guards. _M’imnu Durin,”_ he muttered.

Saldís dragged her feet, lips twisted in a mulish expression. It wasn’t fair. All she wanted was to watch for a bit. What harm in that?

It was then that a group of men happened by, laughing and talking, and almost barreled into Saldís and Finnur. 

“Watch where you’re walking,” Finnin growled, hand to his weapon. 

Saldís missed the men’s response, for when Finnur planted himself at his brother’s side, she saw her opportunity. She had to know more about men, and not solely what Viggi would tell her. She ducked behind the nearest booth, slunk along its back, and raced off. Finnin would be furious, but she knew she could make it up to him later. 

She was so thrilled with her success, she didn’t even see the cat until it brushed up against her, startling Saldís enough to jump into the air. It purred, winding around her ankles. The moment she reached down to pat it, the cat sauntered off, its head craning about as if to watch to see if she followed. It returned to her when Saldís did not move. 

That cat’s head butted into her, and a low growl of annoyance issues from its throat. With a look of pure hauteur, it again padded away. 

Could it be from the Valar? Adâd said her scar was no coincidence. What if Mahal wished something of her? With giddy excitement, she pursued the cat from shadow to shadow, ever further from the center of the market. 

It was a game. A lark. 

Until a man of striking beauty intercepted her. His green eyes lit with satisfaction. Too late, an inner voice piped up in warning. 

“I should return to my sire,” she said in Common, backing away.

His gentle smile terrified her. Saldís turned to run, but strong hands clamped around her belly and mouth. Fear exploded in her chest. Saldís writhed, trying to call out past his muffling hand. _Adâd!_

“At last,” he crooned in a voice that sent chills through her body. “My daughter.”


	4. Cold

### Chapter 4

At first, ‘twas not worry that ruled him but exasperation. Well did Bifur know his daughter’s penchant for wandering off, especially if her curiosity was pricked. His Saldís had a lively mind, and Bifur could scarce keep the shade of a grin from his face as his dam waved both hands in agitation. That Saldís had caused her _ugmil’amad_ distress was something he’d be addressing with his daughter.

As soon as he located her.

After assuring his dam that he’d find their missing lass, he rounded up his cousins and Ori to search Frerin’s Court. Bifur had denied Saldís permission to venture anywhere near the area so long as the band of traveling merchants, all men, peddled their wares from there, so it didn’t need saying that, aye, _that_ is where his obedient little daughter would head. 

Mahal. Frustration rose. Saldís was his, and he had hoped to avoid any complaints from the men about that. Perhaps a foolish hope, but he’d wished to spare his king that headache given Thorin’s unwarranted support and generosity. 

With Bombur, Bofur, and Ori to aid him, Dori and Nori were quickly located—Nori sporting a wicked gleam in his eye that heralded trouble for Thorin should the thief be found out. The two brothers were apprised of the situation and joined the search without hesitation. Dori trotted off to alert the guards to be on the lookout for Bifur’s black-haired lass. 

“Bifur!” At the call, hope surged. Finnin, he identified, with young Finnur by his side. 

“Have ye seen—?”

“We lost her,” Finnin said, the blond-haired dwarf’s face tight with worry. “She was right beside me when a group of men near ran us down.”

“I found her watching them,” Finnur interjected. “Alone.”

Aye, as he’d expected. Bifur forced himself from panic. Saldís was here, hiding, and he’d find her. 

“I’ll escort Finnur home to our dam and return to help,” Finnin said. 

“Appreciate it,” Bofur said.

The blond dwarf nodded shortly. “I should not have lost her.”

‘Twas not the young warrior-to-be’s fault, Bifur thought, but little use arguing the point. Saldís was counted as one of their children, and the dwarf’s protective nature likely pained him for allowing Bifur’s daughter to slip away. 

When evening waxed towards night with no sign of his daughter, Bifur’s worry blossomed into fear. Inquisitive, aye, Saldís was that, but she was also a creature of habit. She’d not be missing their evening meal or the time they spent reading stories and talking before her bedtime. Not willingly. 

The sun disappeared, and a cold darkness filled Bifur’s chest as it did the sky. _Mahal. Where are you, my Saldís?_

By the king’s command, Thorin’s Hall emptied like a kicked ant mound. Thorin questioned the visiting men with little patience while his people searched the surrounding roads and wilderness with lanterns in hand and faces set with determination. 

It availed them not. The sun rose, and Bifur’s wee lassie remained missing. Fear became tinged with desperation, an emotion he saw staring back at him from Bofur’s and Bombur’s faces. 

‘Twas late the next afternoon when a guard stumbled upon Saldís’s severed braid. With the knots of Bifur’s House and accent beads the very shade of her eyes, there could be no mistake. Lying tangled in a bush, it was, at the side of the road leading south to Gondomon. 

He and Bofur raced to claim the swiftest ponies in Thorin’s stables, not bothering with supplies before they galloped south. 

‘Twas that day Bifur’s happy existence turned into a living nightmare.

OoOoOo

_  
**24 February - 13 April TA 2937 - Saldís 8**  
_

Saldís recoiled backwards, heart hammering so hard she thought it would break. The thick soles of her boots caught on a protruding rock, and she flailed as the bad man stalked towards her, his face twisted with fury and his drawn blade dripping blood— _splat, splat, splat_ —onto the dirt road. 

_Adâd?_ Tears clogged her throat. She was terrified Adâd would never find her. The bad man had left her braid on the road leading south, but he’d taken them west and north. Always by foot and always choosing lesser-used paths to avoid detection.

Saldís had been at the bad man’s mercy for days now—Kimilzor, he’d introduced himself, claiming he was her _real_ father—and had recognized one truth very quickly. Kimilzor was evil. She was sure Morgoth could not be as black-hearted. 

A frantic look up and down the lonely stretch of road reinforced what she already knew. There was no one else in sight. Her gaze skittered around Kimilzor to land once more upon the bodies of the men she’d begged to help her. The two trappers had been so jovial, so _nice_ and honest-looking with their bushy beards. Saldís had only wanted to return to Adâd. She’d never dreamed… 

Her hand pressed to her mouth, trying not to gag. There was blood everywhere. He’d killed them. He’d—

Kimilzor’s hand whipped out. His palm connected with her cheek, sending her to the ground. Saldís clutched her face, a scream locked in her throat.

The bad man’s icy green eyes glared down at her from a face laced with cruelty. He pointed one finger at the bodies of the two men. “This is your fault,” he said with such conviction that she believed him. “You belong to me and our Master. If you hadn’t told those men what you did, they would still be alive.”

_Nay._ Anguish and guilt joined the fear pumping through her, and Saldís moaned. The bad man’s eyes narrowed. Her moan died instantly. 

Kimilzor’s lips curled with disgust. “Weak. So pathetically weak. You’ll do better, Akhora. I did not come all this way to return in shame.” He stepped closer, almost standing upon her. “I don’t sire _Breeders._ You will not disgrace me or our House.” 

House? But she belonged to the Longbea—

One lean, long-fingered hand clamped about her chin like a vice, forcing her eyes to his. “By the time we reach home, rabbit, I will have driven the cowardice from you.” He thrust her chin from him with sufficient force to topple her onto her side. 

His bloody sword landed upon her wool skirt, and Saldís jerked. A second later, a square of fabric hit her in the face before falling into her lap. “Clean it while I dispose of the bodies.” His cold, unblinking stare made Saldís yearn so very much for Adâd, or Uncles Bofur, Bombur, Nori, or Dori. “I trust you will not try to run?”

Saldís swallowed, then shook her head wildly from side to side.

“Good.” 

As he marched away, the eight-year-old girl tried to contain the sobs fighting for freedom, but her entire body convulsed with each petrified gasp. She shoved the blade off of her, face contorting as it left a crimson slash on her travel-stained skirt. Blinking back tears, Saldís’s hands lifted the rag. With tentative swipes, blood smeared from the blade. 

Sticky. It was awful to see, and the smell… Saldís swallowed, terrified of what he’d do if she got sick. 

At his snort, she froze. “You will learn, rabbit. Where we are headed, children your age are already blooded with the blade.” His footsteps crunched upon brittle, dried grass as he walked away. Then he halted. “Tell me, Akhora. Were you taught the dwarf tongue while living among them?”

_Mahal._ Khuzdul was not for outsiders! King Thorin would never allow a man like Kimilzor to learn it. _I bet Prince Kíli wouldn’t tell him anything if he was here._ Saldís was sure about that. Prince Kíli was the bravest dwarf ever except for Adâd. A decision: Saldís would try to be like Kíli. She wouldn’t betray a single word. 

Shaking with terror that Kimilzor would know she lied, she whispered, “Only dwarves know it.”

A grunt. “A shame. It could have proved useful.” A sly smirk. “And purchased you a reprieve.” Then sharper, “Clean the weapon.”

What was a re-preeve? She didn’t dare ask. Saldís returned to her gruesome task, spine twitching. _Adâd, where are you?_ Every night since the bad man had snatched her from the marketplace, she’d hoped the next day would be the one when Adâd arrived. That he would see through the false trail and find her and make the bad man sorry. 

But each day passed, and Adâd did not arrive. Was he mad at her? Saldís was so sorry, and she’d tell him so if he’d just come. She’d never disobey him again. She bitterly regretted sneaking away from _Ugmil’amad_ and Finnin. She didn’t care about men or being different anymore. She just wanted to go home. 

If this nightmare had taught her anything, it was this—she wanted nothing to do with men. From now on, she promised to believe her Adâd’s words. _She_ was of the Khazâd.

OoOoOo

Saldís lost track of time. The familiar, rugged peaks of the Blue Mountains abandoned her first, and then the pine trees to which she was accustomed. A barren, alien landscape of snow and ice replaced them. Forochel, Kimilzor had named it. Saldís was discovering the world was ever so much bigger than she’d imagined, and it frightened her all the more. How could Adâd ever find her in such vastness?

She hugged herself, fiercely missing the comfort of thick stone walls around her. All the open sky and empty space unnerved her.

Adâd wouldn’t be able to find her. She’d feared it before, but as the Blue Mountains faded at her back, the knowledge settled into her bones. _Iridzu du-khuzd,_ she repeated to herself, hearing them in Adâd’s voice. A Longbeard. If she was to ever reach home, she’d have to free herself.

OoOoOo

It took two more days before Saldís mustered the courage to escape Kimilzor. His back was turned, and she bolted. She’d been scraping together the nerve to try _something,_ and the weight of worry and fear had grown to such proportions that she couldn’t bear it any longer.

Kimilzor caught her before she’d managed a dozen paces, and the look upon his face sent terror screaming through her. That night, he made himself a switch and lashed her back until she sobbed and screamed she was sorry. 

She went to bed shaking with terror, pain, and shame. Dashing tears from her cheeks, she berated herself for her cowardice. Adâd would never have screamed like that. A _khuzd_ should be stronger.

Yet a fire ignited. Saldís wanted to go home, and now, she was set upon it. Over the course of the next week, she tried to escape five more times. Twice, she managed to actually disappear from his view, and once, she eluded him for a full hour. But though she left no tracks that she could see, Kimilzor located her. The punishments grew harsher. 

It was her last attempt that destroyed any hope she had of ever succeeding. It had been a trap, but Saldís had been so frantic…

The day began as many previous, with Kimilzor silently tossing her a hunk of bread and dried meat. They’d donned the thick cloaks Kimilzor had provided that served also as bedrolls and set out on foot. 

“We are in need of supplies,” he’d said, breaking a days-long silence between them. Huddled in her cloak, she didn’t respond. Green eyes had flicked her way. “There is a Lossoth village not far from here. I will purchase what we need. You will remain out of sight.” Those icy eyes returned to her, colder than Forochel’s biting winds. “You will stay put. Do not dare disobey me.” 

Almost, fear kept her where he indicated. Almost. A torn heartbeat, indecision waging a brutal war in her chest as he vanished from sight. Her body begged her not to risk Kimilzor’s temper again, but she glanced at her scar, firmed her chin, and fled. 

All day and night, she scrambled through the frozen tundra, her feet flying ever south. Only when exhaustion blurred her vision did she dare to halt, and even then, Saldís searched long and hard for a hiding place. She painstakingly picked her way across a creek, careful not to let her feet dip into the waters. She clambered out only when she discovered a cluster of boulders along the west bank, their surfaces slick but scalable. 

Saldís managed to gain the top and wedged herself into the folds where the massive stones met. A timid hope bloomed, one she was afraid to trust, one she pleaded with the Valar not to let be a lie. She’d never managed to evade Kimilzor for so long. Could she have done it? 

She awoke to loud throat-clearing directly beside her. Saldís tensed, terror surging through her veins as she waited for the words that would surely come.

“Down.” Kimilzor’s silky command reached her as she’d known it would. 

How? _How?_ Saldís hugged her knees to her chest, weeping. How did he keep finding her? “Adâd, where are you?” she whispered in a voice strangled of all strength. “I want to come home.”

“I will not ask again.”

Shaking like a leaf, she descended, her sturdy dwarven boots skidding and slipping across stone every few steps. By the time she reached the ground, her palms were scraped and stinging, her knees were bruised, and her body was shaking so hard she barely kept her feet. 

Rough hands whipped her around, and crystalline green eyes bored into hers. One hand changed its grip to claim her jaw, and her head was turned one way, then the other. “Perhaps there is a speck of me in you after all,” he murmured. Then louder, a frightening smile claiming his lips, “But I am finished with this lesson. How many times does this make, Akhora?”

She stood silent, trembling. 

“How many?” The iron beneath the calm tone was more sinister than if he’d shouted. 

“S-six.”

Again, that smile. “Six.” It melted away. “Six times, I allowed you to flee. A lesson.” In a lightning-quick move, he grabbed her to his side, pinning her in place, and showed her his drawn dagger. Saldís whimpered, squirming, until he said, “Stop,” in that same calm voice. 

Though she raged in her heart, she found her body obeying like a trained dog. Adâd would be disappointed. Wouldn’t he? 

Kimilzor jerked her left hand with its mottled scar into view and forced her index finger to extend. Was he going to—?

With a deft twist of his dagger, he pierced the tip. Blood welled from her finger.

“Watch.”

Nonsensical words poured from his lips, chanted words that sounded jarring to Saldís’s ears. There was something about them she did not like. When he finished, she felt a brush of oiliness across her skin. The dot of blood upon her finger shivered, and her heart gave a painful lurch to see it morph into red, glossy smoke. 

Kimilzor sheathed his dagger and held out his right palm. The red mist flowed into his grasp like water poured into a cup. Kimilzor’s hand closed about it in a tight fist. When he eased his grip, there in his palm rested one drop of her blood. 

“Blood of my blood,” he murmured. Those cold green eyes stared down at her. “I can find you, Akhora, at any time. Any place. There is no hiding.” A chilling flame seemed to ignite behind those green eyes. “How do you think I located you in a mountain of dwarves? They were careful to keep you hidden, but in the end, their efforts were wasted.” 

Because of _her._ Her chin quivered and tears she dared not allow fall filled her eyes. 

He released her with no warning, and Saldís fell to her knees, finger held protectively in the opposite hand. “Try to elude me again, and I’ll let you go.” 

Equal measures of terror and hope surged through her. “Y-you will?”

That cold, cold smile. “I will.” He squatted down and batted her nose with one finger. “And when I reclaim you, I’ll kill the dwarves who try to stop me. I owe them for the inconvenience they caused me. Give me an excuse, and I’ll see to it they pay in full.”

Ice slithered down her spine, and her teeth began to chatter. Not Adâd. Her imagination provided a picture of Kimilzor standing with his bloody sword over Adâd’s and Uncle Bofur’s bodies, and Saldís felt every ounce of blood drain from her face.

Kimilzor rose to his feet and walked westward. “Now, come. You’ve cost me enough time. Don’t dawdle.”

He’d kill Adâd. Feverish chills rushed up and down her skin. Saldís couldn’t stop shaking as she climbed to her feet and stumbled after him. Adâd had always seemed so strong, the bravest and fiercest warrior ever. An ax blow to the head had not stopped her adâd.

But Kimilzor was evil. He had _sorcery._ Nothing would stop him. Certainly not a simple boar spear. 

She would never see home again. Adâd, her uncles, Ugmil’amad and Ugmil’adad—they were lost to her. Tears won free, streaming down her cheeks as Saldís walked on, her chest an aching hollow where her heart had once been.

OoOoOo

A strange numbness stole over Saldís, one she did nothing to fight. She hurt less this way, and Saldís didn’t want to hurt anymore. The ache of missing Adâd and her family was too painful, and the future frightened her past bearing. Better to not feel. To not think.

Kimilzor alone broke the silence, and that only to issue commands, whether to direct her in the building of a campfire or to keep up when Forochel’s horrible cold slowed her steps. For all he claimed to have sired her, he treated her as if she was a piece of equipment. Or mayhap a dog. 

She didn’t care. She clutched the sleepy-brain feeling to her chest as she would the stuffed doll she’d named Kíli and idly noted the passage of the sun. The short days melted together in a mishmash of blinding white snow. Nights lasted forever, the skies sometimes rippling with colorful sheets that stretched on and on. The beautiful sight failed to move her. 

Saldís lost all track of time until one day, they reached Kimilzor’s destination: an icy cove in which a big boat was anchored. The sheltering cocoon that had supported her shattered. Gooseflesh broke out upon her arms as her mind cleared for the first time in…she wasn’t sure how long. Everything sharpened—the cold searing her nostrils with each inhale, the crisp colors of the world around her, everything. 

The avalanche of fear and grief she’d held at bay crashed down with smothering intensity. She didn’t want to board that ship. _I can’t do this,_ her mind babbled. _I can’t…_

She panted, heart pounding.

At Kimilzor’s shout, a smaller boat was lowered from the ship. Two men in heavy furs rowed to shore. Saldís could not help looking over her shoulder. _Adâd, please._ Her legs trembled, burning with the need to run and run and run. 

A heavy hand descended upon her shoulder, the grip a warning. Her body shook all the harder, and her teeth chattered. _Adâd? Uncle Bofur? Nori?_ Saldís felt utterly abandoned—nay, _betrayed_ —at their failure to arrive. _Mahal?_ Someone had to save her. They had to. 

Kimilzor made no move to assist as the men forged a path through the thin layer of ice hugging the shore. One of the men leaped from the boat as it neared the snowy beach, his fur hood collapsing against his back to reveal a face as smooth and startling as Kimilzor’s. He hauled the boat the rest of the way, his boots splashing and kicking up frigid water. “Ib-Kimilzor,” he greeted with a dip of his head, two ruby studs glinting in his right ear. 

“He-Lhaenor,” Kimilzor said with little welcome.

Did he not care about even his own people? Saldís hugged herself. If these were Khazâd, there would be a boisterous pounding upon each others’ backs and a keg being opened. Kimilzor ignored the two men, staring at the ship anchored in the bay, his face all severe lines. 

Like the ice all around them. 

The two newcomers didn’t seem to mind Kimilzor’s indifference. After a brief glance her way, they ignored her, too. Any hope she’d had of a kind ally died before it could be born. 

“I trust there were no difficulties?” Kimilzor asked. He crooked a finger at Saldís and walked past both men to step into the boat. 

“No, Ib-Kimilzor.” Lhaenor’s eyes crinkled at the edges. Like Kimilzor, he had penetrating eyes, only his were a pale blue. “One Lossoth tribe objected to our presence.” Then with relish, “That’s one less tribe of savages roaming these lands.”

Evil. All of them, evil. 

Saldís was running before she knew it. A moan escaped from between her lips. She knew not where she ran—she had no destination in mind—only that she must. Even if it was futile, she had to try. 

There were no shouts behind her. There was no uproar. That eerie silence frightened her more, and her feet found another burst of speed.  
But then a snap cracked through the air. Something twined about her foot so fast, she was jerked off her feet. Down she slammed onto the frozen, icy ground. The breath rushed from her lungs, denying her any voice but a whimper. Her chin throbbed from smacking into the ice, and as that thing about her ankle pulled her backward, she left dots of blood on the white blanket of ice and snow beneath her. 

She didn’t fight. A sob broke free from her, releasing the flood she had suppressed for so long. By the time she was hauled to her feet by Kimilzor, she could scarce control herself, snot and tears smearing down her face. Blood dripped from her chin, splatting onto her travel-stained shirt, marring Dori’s embroidery. 

Green eyes burned down at her, and a so-gentle finger tapped her cheek. It lied, that gesture. How could something gentle be so frightening? 

“You and your mother have cost me enough, _mahebe._ You have brought shame upon our House.” A cold smile. “I believe I will leave your discipline to the others. Let them instruct you on what happens to would-be Novices who fail to uphold the honor of House Sangahyando.” 

Kimilzor stepped back, coiling a long whip and returning it to a pocket in his trousers. He left her, reclaiming his seat in the boat. 

The other two men converged on her, and Saldís swallowed, her tears forgotten in the face of this new threat. The ebony eyes of the taller stared without blinking, putting her to mind of the snakes she and Finnur had found when exploring unused caverns deep beneath Thorin’s Hall. Her gaze rushed to Kimilzor. Surely if he’d gone to so much trouble to find her, he wouldn’t let them…

He didn’t even watch. 

He of the blue eyes, He-Lhaenor, grabbed her arm, his fingers iron bands that bruised. 

“What are you doing?” she babbled fearfully.

He didn’t answer. Lhaenor dragged her to the water’s edge…and then into the icy sea. Saldís’s breath whooshed out at the shocking cold, and she belatedly tried to dig in her heels. Her boots skidded on slick rocks and sand as he pulled them both deeper until she choked on water, her feet no longer touching ground. 

His handsome, beardless face showed not an ounce of concern. She noted it a split-second before he gripped the hair at the crown of her head in an unbreakable and painful hold.

He forced her beneath the waves—and held her there.

Shock clanged, and Saldís exploded into violence, kicking and punching at him. The water churned around her until he and everything else disappeared from view. What was he—? He was going to kill her! She tore at his fingers to no avail, and she kicked at his legs, but unlike herself, he was solidly perched upon the sea floor. 

The need for air escalated in steady increments, and her panic grew in tandem. _Mahal! Eru!_ No help came, and from Lhaenor, there was no mercy. How could Kimilzor just sit there? She was just a child! 

King Thorin would flay any who dared lay a bruising hand on a dwarfling. For such a crime as this, she suspected he’d draw his big sword and end the villain. King Thorin, however, was _good._ As her hands clawed at Lhaenor’s fingers, fumbling to loosen his hold, she was forcibly reminded that these men…weren’t. 

It was only as she thought her life over that he drew her forth, yanking her from the freezing water to dangle in the air, his fist tight about the collar of her coat and jerkin. She gasped and sputtered, trying to breathe, and he pulled her close.

“Consider this your warning,” he said with soft-spoken menace. “You make our House lose face, and you will wish for death.” A frightening look grew upon Lhaenor’s beautiful, sharp-edged face, and his auburn hair rustled at a sudden burst of wind. “But there will be no death. Do you understand, Novice?”

She nodded wildly, speech beyond her. Warmth piddled her thighs as her bladder loosed. 

“Good.”

OoOoOo

Saldís’s breath hitched as the shirt Dori had embroidered for her disappeared beneath the sea’s waves. Gooseflesh broke out upon her arms beneath her furs. Another tie lost, another piece of her past ripped away. Saldís’s chest throbbed with pain, and her ear seemed to pulsate in sympathy where Kimilzor had punctured her earlobe with a dull iron stud earring.

Kimilzor had named her Novice, and her mind was so petrified at what that implied and what her future held that she could not think what to do. She was bleeding. Not outside where anyone could see it, but inside. She flinched as her dwarven boots splashed in after the shirt, chucked overboard by Kimilzor with seeming negligence.

She hated the new clothes upon her body. The droopy pants were unlike anything she’d ever seen before, and the leather vest laced over her loose, linen tunic did little to counter the cold. Desert attire, Kimilzor had informed her before ordering her to change. 

She hadn’t dared to resist. 

“Take this.”

Only with difficulty did Saldís tear her gaze free from the sea and her lost possessions. Kimilzor held a curved wooden sword out to her, his face twisting into lines of displeasure. She quickly snatched the sword from him. 

“Now, Akhora, we begin.”

She held the sword limply, body shivering as he pulled the warm furs from her, leaving her exposed to the cold in only her desert attire. 

A sword. The Saldís who’d been longed to blurt that she wanted nothing to do with weapons. The Saldís who knew she had no choice firmed her grip bleakly.


	5. Akhora

### Chapter 5

_**5 March TA 2940 - Saldís 11** _

Bifur dropped onto a stool, the silence within his home deafening. His travel bags fell in a heap at his feet. Dust covered the tables and crockery, but Bifur could not bring himself to care. These walls no longer felt like home, not with half of the family that had joyfully dwelled here missing. The disrepair suited him. ‘Twas a fact, he’d barked at his amâd the one time she’d tried to set it to rights. 

So long as his Saldís remained missing, he wished his home to reflect it. Obstinate? Aye, like as not. But he’d not budge. 

Bofur and Nori had departed to inform king and family of another failure. As ever, Bifur’s right hand pressed to the bracelet about his left wrist as he thought of his daughter. ‘Twas his daughter’s adoption braid, severed from her scalp and discarded by whomever had stolen her. An intense rush of grief and fear tightened his chest. 

He reached for a jug of beer, idly considering hunting down something stronger. After pouring a goodly amount into a mug, he tossed it back, his throat tight. 

Over two years had passed since he’d last seen his Saldís, and he was no closer to finding her. Not so much as a clue had been unearthed for all his efforts. He knew not if orcs had taken her or some other enemy. Like as not, he could dismiss the notion of orcs. What reason would they have to take Saldís but leave her braid? Yet, Bifur could not banish that fearful possibility from his mind regardless of logic’s arguments to the contrary. More likely, and just as disturbing, was the possibility of slavers. Bandits. 

_Mahal._ He rubbed one side of his head. ‘Twas like the ground had swallowed her up. 

Not satisfied when the local towns of men had no word, Bifur had scoured Breeland, followed by the North Downs. When each failed to yield any sign of her, his search had broadened to include the Shire and the lands surrounding Evendim Lake. But for brief stops here to restock his supplies, he’d not ceased from roaming the surrounding areas in search of some trace, sometimes with company, sometimes alone. 

A knock rattled the door, one unfamiliar. Bofur or Bombur’s raps, he knew well, and his dam’s and sire’s. Those, he would have ignored, not wishing for company this evening. Hope was a fading thing, and Bifur could not bear to believe his daughter truly gone.

The knock came again. With a grunt, Bifur forced himself to his feet. When he opened the door, shock propelled him back a step. 

Dís, sister to the king, marched into his small home and shut the door behind her. ‘Twas almost unheard of, it was, for a dwarrowdam to enter the chambers of an unrelated male without protectors. 

“My princess,” he said thickly, bowing at the waist. 

Bright blue eyes stared at him from within a face much resembling his king’s. But where Thorin’s features seemed chiseled by Mahal to reflect his unyielding stubbornness, Dís’s revealed strength tempered by generosity. She was a fearsome dwarrowdam, their princess—a force to be reckoned with, truly—but she’d learned compassion through the many trials she’s endured. Dís had lost her mate, Vili, to a freak accident in the mines, her grandfather to both dragon sickness and later orcs, and her father had gone missing almost a century past. What King Thrain’s end might have been, none knew. 

Dís claimed his left hand without word, her fingers finding the braid of black hair about his wrist. Pain again stole through him. 

“I try to imagine,” the lady said softly, hands squeezing his between her own, “the grief and fear I’d know if it was Kíli or Fíli who’d disappeared so.” She near gutted him with her words, and he blinked a rush of tears from his eyes. “Like you, I don’t believe I would ever stop looking.” Her grip on his hand tightened. “Saldís belongs to us, Bifur. With your adoption, she became a member of our House. Don’t ever think we’ve forgotten her.”

His tongue felt thick as he managed, “I thank you for your words—”

Dís stopped him with a sharp jerk of her head. Releasing his hand, she gestured to the table where he’d been seated before her arrival. “Sit, Bifur. I must speak with you.”

Aye? The king’s sister had a determined bent to her bearded chin, and her jeweled fingers clasped before her waist in a tight knot. Sitting, he offered her a mug of the same beer he’d been imbibing, wincing to know it was hardly suitable for such a grand lady as herself. Dís accepted graciously, sipping the frothy beverage as if it were a favored mead. 

She set her mug down and faced him. “I’m sure by now you’ve heard rumors about Erebor.”

Bifur scratched his jaw, uncertain what this had to do with him. “Aye.” The mountain was fair buzzing with whispers about their king’s intention to reclaim their homeland. Many feared Thorin touched with the same illness of the mind as had claimed his grandfather and father, that this was a sign of his ultimate downfall. Bifur hoped they were wrong, for he was quite fond of his king. Thorin was a dwarf worth following, and that was a fact. 

Dís drummed her fingers upon the table, her blue eyes keen upon him. “You wonder why I broach this topic with you.”

Never had it been said that Dís was short on directness. “Aye,” he admitted.

Dís leaned forward upon her stool. “Gandalf the Gray joins his venture.” At Bifur’s swift inhale, she nodded. “Aye. If the Gray Wizard believes Erebor might be reclaimed, there must indeed be a way.”

Bifur nodded blankly, still wondering why he was hearing this. 

She drummed her fingers once more, the blue of a sapphire upon her ring flashing in the lantern light. “Even with Gandalf, few are willing to aid my brother.” Her fingers reversed and drummed in the opposite order. “I worry over this venture,” she whispered. “I have no wish to lose my brother. Or my sons. Yes,” she said before he could speak, “both of my boys are determined to accompany their uncle.” A wry twist of her lips. “As determined as Thorin is for them to go.”

Bifur waited. As sure as a dragon loved his gold, Dís was headed somewhere with this.

Her fingers ceased their agitations. “I want you and your cousins to go with them.”

What? Bifur jumped to his feet. “I will not—”

Dís rose with him, her hands planted upon the table’s top. “The more who join my brother, the better our chances of success. This expedition will take you to new lands, Bifur. Lands you have not begun searching for Saldís.” 

That curbed his objections though Bifur still bristled. What did he care for such a venture when his daughter was missing? 

A stubborn, cool gaze swept over him. “With the gold that lies within Erebor, we could have eyes searching for our missing child across all of Arda. Gold loosens tongues. You know it does where men are concerned.”

Bifur’s knees unlocked, dumping him back upon his stool. Was she saying…?

“I vow, Bifur, that if Erebor is reclaimed, the treasury will be opened. Aught you need will be given freely. If the cretins who took her think they can hide, they will discover otherwise. A reward will be offered for her safe return that will guarantee no safe harbor for those who dared to take one of ours.”

OoOoOo

Dís’s words followed him as Bifur cleaned up the dishes from his evening repast. He was loath to interrupt his search for Saldís. The busyness and feeling of doing something, no matter how futile, was all that kept him sane, truly.

Mahal. He rubbed his face with both hands. His gaze strayed to where Saldís’s favorite doll sat upon a chair. She’d named it Kíli, she had, never mind that the face upon it was nearer that of a female. Such had been her adoration for the younger Durin prince from the time she’d first set eyes upon him.

A chance. Risk all in the hopes Erebor would return to dwarf hands and its wealth might prove sufficient to loosen tongues. With reward enough, Dís was correct. Word would spread. From Gondor to distant Forochel, mayhap across the sea to the Corsairs and Haradrim, too. 

_Aye, and what if Saldís returns and her adâd is not here?_ ‘twas a worry, though an unlikely one at present. Setting aside the damp towel he’d used to dry the dishes, he decided to seek the counsel of his kin.

OoOoOo

After hearing Dís’s proposition, Bifur’s family sat in the great room of Suffia and Balfur’s humble abode looking upon one other with gravity. Weighing, they were, and not dismissing out of hand. It told Bifur much about their own reservations. They didn’t expect to find Saldís without more aid, either.

Bifur grunted, hand tugging upon his beard. “I’m wanting your word, all of you, that if I do this, and if I perish, you’ll be here for Saldís.” His gaze found Bofur especially. “You’ll protect her.”

Bofur flashed a big grin his way, one distinctly lacking in any amusement. “Ah, and you think you’re going without us, do you?”

Bombur folded meaty arms around his ample belly, glowering. “He could not be so daft, Brother.”

Bofur smacked his own forehead. “Aye, what was I thinking? Our cousin would never insult us by suggesting we remain in safety while he goes hying off into danger.” By the end, there was not a speck of even feigned amusement upon his eldest cousin’s face. Nor the younger, for that matter.

“You’re her sire,” Bombur said somberly. “Best if you stay. Bofur and I will see it done.”

Bifur was shaking his head ere they finished. He stood, scowling down at them—not that they seemed at all subdued by his anger. “’Tis my daughter out there,” he said in a raw voice, his pain and self-recriminations bared to all. “If there’s risking to be done, I’ll be the one to do it.”

‘Twas then his uncle, Banfur, rose with the use of the cane he’d relied upon since the same clash with orcs that had left the ax in Bifur’s skull. The eldest of the Ur family thumped the cane once for attention. Then the white-haired dwarf held each of the three cousins’ eyes in turn. 

“Nay,” he said at last. “If one goes, all three go. I’ll not have one of ye being lost because the other two were not there to guard his back. Smaug is no light matter. Ye lads remember the tales, I know, but few remain to this day who faced the beastie directly.” A pause as Banfur cleared his throat. “Old Bjartur did. Heard it all from his lips, I did, and read still more from his face whilst he spoke. Never underestimate a dragon. Embellish a story, aye, we dwarves do. But not that one. Not Smaug.” 

Banfur turned to his brother, Bifur’s father, Balfur. What message flowed between the brothers, Bifur didn’t know. ‘Twas always that way between Banfur and Balfur. Close as twins, the two, though there were four decades difference in their ages. 

At at the end of the exchange, Balfur inclined his head in agreement. Banfur turned to the cousins. “Ye three go. And succeed, mind. I’m not losing my nephew or my sons, aye?” Hard eyes, one brown, one green, turned to Bifur. “Rest your mind. If we find Saldís, we three will be tending to her.”

“I’ll not lose her again,” Suffia said in a tremulous voice. 

Bifur gathered his dam into his arms a split second before his sire could do the same. “’Tis not of your doing, Amâd,” he told her roughly. “Don’t be blaming yourself.”

“Aye, listen to your son, my _gabilkurdu,”_ Balfur said. 

Suffia’s watery gaze lifted to her son. She grabbed hold of his jerkin. “You return, son of mine. And in your absence, I’ll continue to make certain every merchant to pass this way has Saldís’s description.”

Bofur rose to stand at Bifur’s side. “We’ll draw up more pictures of her before we leave,” he said, the words a promise.

“Ye do that, and we’ll see to it anyone who passes this way leaves with her likeness in hand,” Banfur said. 

The next morning, the three sought out their king to advise him of their decision. Upon hearing word of it, Dori, Nori and Ori added their names to the list, too. For as Nori said, “Thorin is kin, so we’d considered joining on that alone. If you three are doing this for Saldís, well, I’m thinking that settles the matter for us. We’ll throw in, too.”

OoOoOo

_  
**3 June TA 2940 - Saldís 11**  
_

Saldís froze, her scimitar slipping from suddenly numb fingers. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead as she panted for breath. 

The Novices’ current instructor—one of the five Hands of the Duumvirate by the name of Harathar—materialized at her side, his loose linen vest and trousers snapping with the wind. Before she could recover her composure, the bronze-skinned man’s sandaled foot whipped out, and Saldís toppled to her back, staring up at the blue sky, the sun beating down and Harathar’s curved blade nicking her throat. 

A snicker from another Novice. Valkthor, she recognized. Her half-brother. By Durin, she despised him. He’d almost destroyed her as he had another sibling before her, a boy she’d never met. 

Valkthor was just like Kimilzor, and not solely in appearance. Once, she’d thought to befriend and protect the young _muzm_ (beast). He was kin, and to the _khuzd_ she had once been, that had meant everything. Fíli and Kíli, Uncles Bofur and Bombur, Uncles Nori and Ori—they taught her that siblings were supposed to be the most trusted of allies. Valkthor had played on that, and Saldís would never, ever forget the lesson. Here, a _khuzd_ could trust no one. 

Harathar’s lips curled with disgust as he stepped into the sun’s path, splashing shadow across her face. “Breeder in the making,” he declared, and more jeering laughter filled the outdoor arena. “Get on your feet, Novice.” He tucked his scimitar into his belt, backing a step to give her room, but his disdain burned her worse than the intense, Tovennian sun.

Saldís stood, cheeks red and throat tight. Her hands clenched spasmodically at her sides. They couldn’t turn her into a killer. She wouldn’t be like _them._ She was of the Khazâd. 

The brown-haired boy she’d injured held his bleeding arm to his scrawny chest. Instead of gratitude that she’d held back, sparing his life, he spat at her feet. Mayhap he wanted to join the member of his House who’d left the training fields a corpse not four days ago by Valkthor’s hand. 

“I think it is time,” Harathar said, and Saldís’s head whipped back to him at the dark pleasure in his voice. “Mizando, do you require a healer?”

“No, their Hand.” A lift of his chin and a scathing look cut towards Saldís. 

“It seems Herumor House breeds true after all,” Harathar said, eyes half-mast. His gaze slid back to Saldís. “Unlike House Sangahyando. Your forefather led a glorious raid that took the life of a Gondorian king, Novice, yet you cannot even slay a boy in service to your Master. A pity.”

Saldís didn’t need to glance about to know every Novice of her own House seethed that she’d caused them to lose face. A thrill of fear raced up her spine, and her mouth went dry. She’d never forgotten He-Lhaenor’s words. She’d been doing good, she thought, to hide her reticence to kill, feigning missteps and fumbling parries. 

But now, this. Retribution would be swift from all sides, and her shoulders hunched in anticipation of the blows that would come. _Mahal. Eru._ Would there ever be an end? A by now familiar fury welled up inside, and Saldís took a deep breath, forcing it back. It had a life of its own, and she’d begun to fear it.

Her life was never-ending training. Weapons. Herbs and plants both as medicine and poison. How to find water. Food. How to ride the giant, ostrich-like birds they used in lieu of horses in this arid land, _emala_ by name. All of it for one purpose: war. She and the other Novices were fodder for Sauron’s war machine, and the thought made her ill when she allowed herself to think upon it. 

Masking her nervous fretting with blankness, Saldís trailed after Hand Harathar with the other Novices, ignoring the shoves and dodging the feet thrust into her path to trip her up until they reached… 

She swallowed, a hollow feeling growing in her belly. The Breeders’ Den. Screams came from the building. There were stories—awful stories—told by older Novices to the younger with relish.

Eleven years old, she was, when she and the other children shuffled past the forbidding metal doors into those dark and oppressive halls to witness the truth of what transpired here…and what a girl’s fate would be if she failed to meet the expectations of House and Hands. Such boys would die on an altar to the Darkness, but the girls would not be so fortunate. Here, she quivered upon sight of the women destined never to leave the building, their bellies in varying stages of pregnancy. 

Then the last wing, the one housing those not yet pregnant. Saldís’s young ears heard the moans and saw the frightening sight of forced couplings her young mind could not begin to understand. Wrong. All of it was so wrong. Adâd would never do… _that_ …to a female, would he? She hugged herself, feeling filthy and damaged at what her eyes saw. 

Saldís lost the contents in her stomach that day, earning her still more ridicule from her fellows. Though the others masked it better, she could see the fear deeply rooted in the other girls’ eyes, too. 

As with them, the damage was done. She left forever changed. A promise was born. She would _never_ end up there. Never. Whatever she had to do, she’d do it. 

She despised the race of men.

OoOoOo

_  
**8 May TA 2941 - Saldís 12**  
_

The hubbub of the Prancing Pony’s patrons ringing in his ears, Bifur rolled up the remaining copies of Saldís’s likeness with lips white and throat tight. He’d not expected any news, not truly as the innkeeper, Butterbur by name, had expressed sympathy and kept a younger Saldís’s image three years past. Bifur had given the man a new drawing, one aged based upon what Bifur knew of men and his daughter, and the man had promised to keep it near at hand. 

As he returned to the Company, his king caught his eye. Bifur shook his head once. “Nay, he’s seen no sign,” he muttered in Khuzdul. He handed the other renderings of his daughter to Ori for safe keeping. Beside the scholar, Nori threw back a hearty portion of his beer, a dispirited mien falling over him, too. 

“Is something amiss?” their wizard, Gandalf the Gray, asked, the merry cheer in his eyes fading. Turning away from the troubadours entertaining from a low dais across the room, sharp eyes locked upon the pages in Ori’s hands with curiosity. 

Ori hesitated, the parchments frozen half in and half out of his satchel. 

‘Twas Thorin who answered after an assessing look Bifur’s way. Bifur nodded shortly at the silent question. “One of our children was taken four years ago,” Thorin began slowly.

“Taken?” Untidy gray brows winged upwards. “A dwarfling? How could this happen?” Lines of concern furrowed Gandalf’s forehead. 

“A child?” their burglar, a hobbit of the Shire, piped up. “Is that—?” Dawning realization. “That is what you were doing in Bywater.”

“Aye,” Bombur said, pushing his half-full plate of food aside. “And Frogmorton, Stock, and Crickhollow as we passed them by.” Bombur’s fleshy hands closed around the two braids dangling before his shoulders. “So we’ll be doing in every town we near.”

A flash of irritation, there and gone once more from Thorin’s face. ‘Twas a sore point, and Bifur was fully cognizant of it. Thorin wished their passage to go unnoticed. He’d no desire to attract attention, but he also understood Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur’s intentions. When given the conditions for their participation, the king had conceded. Not without sympathy, their king, but worried about word spreading of dwarves headed towards Erebor. 

“My king,” Gandalf said with heavy sobriety. “May I see?”

Ori waited only long enough to receive Bifur’s nod before passing a page to Gandalf. Their hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, leaned to the side to gain a vantage from which to see.

“But that’s…” Bilbo cleared his throat, a minute frown claiming his lips as he looked from Ori to the page and on to Bifur. “She’s not a dwarf?”

‘Twas always the first question that arose, one Bifur was grateful to leave in his cousins’ hands. Bifur climbed to his feet and headed for the door. The noise and crush of bodies grated upon him like sandpaper, fraying what was left of his composure. 

He retreated to the dim solitude of the stables.

OoOoOo

__  
**Fall TA 2941 - Saldís almost 12  
Caeldor, Tovennen**

Saldís moaned to see the evidence of her body’s betrayal staining her undergarments. _Mahal._ Without her consent, her body had dared to cross that line between girl-child and woman, readying itself to bear children.

She scrunched her eyes shut. If not for another Novice enduring this same frightening change eight months past, she’d not even have known to fear this development. What had Eru been thinking to design her body to do…this? Memories of that day in the Breeders’ Den set her flesh to recoiling. 

_Hide it._ Once a girl crossed this threshold, a failure upon the training sands equaled a lifetime’s sentence to the very fate she feared above all others: use. Men doing vile things to her body. 

Her skin prickled. No. She wouldn’t let it happen. 

As silently as she could, she tiptoed from her bunk and down the hall to the bathroom. The almost-glow of slit cat eyes stopped her in her tracks. 

_Too late._ Eyes had seen, and the cat would report to the House barracks’ overseer. 

Tears of frustration speckling her eyelashes, she fled the rest of the way to the restroom, slamming the door to shut the cat out.

OoOoOo

__  
**Spring, TA 2942 - Saldís 13  
Erebor**

Bifur stood beside his cousins, Balin, Dwalin, and King Dain as Dís scaled the stairs with her entourage to the gates of Erebor. Grief and guilt blanketed them all, for they’d lost not only their king but Dís’s sons as well in the Battle of Five Armies. Erebor had been reclaimed, aye, but the price…

Too high. To Bifur’s mind, not even the glories within the mountain could replace the bright hope Thorin, Fíli and Kíli had brought to their people. Such potential, the lads. All snuffed out. 

Dís halted before Dain. Her blue eyes slowly traveled among the Iron Hills dignitaries and the surviving members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield without expression. When she reached him, Bifur felt his shoulders bow. His eyes descended to his boots. 

Mahal. He knew well what it was to lose a daughter. He should have remained close to the lads. He should never have allowed them to be slain. The recriminations pounded down upon his head, and Bifur felt each self-inflicted blow keenly. He’d not have wished this tragedy on the princess even for word of his Saldís. 

Footsteps came his way, the steps a slow, steady tread. Two serviceable boots appeared before his own. “Bifur, son of Balfur, raise your head.”

He did as Dís commanded, finding her eyes as bright with unshed tears as his own. Her hand claimed his. “I do not hold any of this Company at fault for their…” Her breath caught. “…deaths.” A muted sniffle, the lady refusing to be torn asunder by her grief. “If there is any to blame, it is my brother and the accursed power gold has ever had on our line.”

“We—” he tried.

“Nay,” she whispered. “I cannot bear to hear details. I’ve already learned more than I wished.” Her chin lifted. “Has word yet gone out about the reward we will offer for our missing child?”

Bifur shook his head once. Dain had proclaimed the matter must wait until Erebor’s defenses were in place and its ambassadors ready for travel. 

“Why not?” she asked, her voice cooling and her head turning until she brought Dain into view. 

The new king stepped closer. “We cannot be advertising our wealth until our defenses are secure, Cousin. Once Erebor is strengthened, we will send representatives to negotiate trade with the other kingdoms. They will carry word of the lass with them.”

Dís inclined her head, the gesture so akin to Thorin that Bifur knew he was not the only one to feel the sharp pierce of grief hit him anew. “So be it. But make it soon, Dain. I’ll not have one of our own abandoned.”

_Soon,_ Bifur told himself. Soon, word would spread. And mayhap soon he’d a last receive word of his Saldís. She was thirteen years old now, his lass, and he feared what the last five years had done to her. _Do not be thinking I’ve forgotten you, my Saldís. Hold on for me. Adâd will find you._

OoOoOo

__  
**Summer, TA 2943 - Saldís 14  
Caeldor, Tovennen**

Years flew by with a speed Saldís could scarcely believe, yet each day felt an eternity. 

The Novices trained hard. Test followed grueling Test, thinning their ranks both by death and consignment to the Den and altars. When the Hands believed they’d gained proficiency with their blades, they were separated for more specialized training. Saldís was slated for further instruction to become a Weapon, a master of weaponry, but many were taken to learn the dark arts. Arcanists, they were called. Some would become priests who washed the altars to the Darkness with the blood of captives and failed Novices, and some sorcerers like Kimilzor. 

Saldís endured. What choice did she have? But pieces of herself chipped away daily, leaving behind someone she didn’t know. Someone who frightened her. 

The life she lived now bore no resemblance to the happy one of Before. Sometimes, she wondered if she’d dreamed up Thorin’s Hall and the Khazâd, for surely goodness did not exist in the world. All was death and blood, treachery and hate. There was only the struggle to survive until one failed, and then a shallow grave. If one was fortunate. 

Saldís clung to the past with white-fingered desperation. The times with Adâd learning how to braid, the deep rumble of his voice as he patiently told her what each loop or bead indicated. The time Uncle Bofur had taken her to an instrument maker to see what instrument would suit her best, and the flute he’d carved for her afterward. The times thereafter in which Adâd, Uncle Bofur, and she had played their instruments together like a game, each taking a turn at leading the others. Bombur. Nori. Dori. Even Ori. She missed them with a hunger she refused to let fade. 

Saldís’s gaze would often seek out the scar on her hand, the one that read endurance. Adâd’s deep voice would return to her, as faithful as the rising of the sun. _“Iridzu du-khuzd,”_ she’d hear him say once more. And for a heartbeat, it almost seemed that she could feel his strong arms around her and smell the smoky fragrance of his favored pipe-weed. 

Yet for all her efforts, his face began to lose distinction. His features blurred. It frightened her. She could not lose him. He was the rock keeping her from teetering into Shadow. In the end, her desperation and homesickness drove her to carve a small flute as Uncle Bofur had taught her. Something tangible to hold on to. 

It was dangerous to possess such a thing. A Black Númenórean was supposed to be above sentimentality, especially where “lesser” peoples were concerned. Her sole devotion was to be to the Dark Lord, the Duumvirate, and the Six Lords. Any evidence otherwise would result in a harsh punishment designed to eradicate the weakness or a one-way trip into the Breeders’ Den. 

Saldís dared not so much as take the flute out to stare at, much less play it. Yet she clung to it—her secret talisman and reminder. It became her ward against the disintegration of everything she’d once been. 

It was a reminder she needed, for life here was war. The strong survived, and the weak did not. There was no mercy, for mercy was a weakness the vultures circling would ever capitalize upon. Novices such as herself—all of them children bred by the Six Lords and their Houses explicitly as weapons in the war to come—were encouraged to play games of deceit and betrayal from the first day a blunted sword was shoved into their young hands and they were thrust into training. Each Novice jockeyed for position, for position alone provided a measure of protection from the fates they all feared. 

“Akhora! We’ll be late,” eleven-year-old Mahris hissed while barreling down the row of cots lining the interior of House Sangahyando’s barracks. The younger girl snapped up her extra daggers, thrusting them into sheaths on her belt and tucking them within her boots. Like Saldís, Mahris was a Weapons-Novice. “We cannot let Fuinur House gain prominence again.” 

Nay, they could not. Not unless they wished to feel Lord Nithirien’s wrath. House was everything, and House Sangahyando’s lord was more exacting than most.

A short nod, and Saldís donned her Akhora-self as one might a cloak. Her shield. Her disguise. _Du-bekâr,_ she whispered to herself. (To arms.) The imagined fellowship with her _real_ people bolstered her to face the day ahead. 

Akhora snatched up her scimitar scabbard with belt from her bunk and latched it about her waist. Like Mahris, she added a host of daggers, one a sword-breaker and others weighted for throwing. A bag of caltrops, a garrote, and her favored whip completed her personal arsenal. 

Grabbing her leather vest, she shrugged it on over the cool, linen tunic and low-riding linen trousers that were her constant attire. _A Corsair’s attire,_ she sneered. With soft, knee-length leather boots, leather wrist vambraces and the linen head scarf to shade her neck and face, she looked a cross between a desert nomad and a pirate.

As she wound the headscarf about her lower face, she wished for the hundredth time she was permitted to chop her black hair short as the boys did. Though the valleys here were oases of green and water, the skin and body never forgot the fact that the land of Tovennen, squeezed between Umbar, Far Harad, and Agar, was largely a desert.

But a girl with short hair could not pass unnoticed in the wider world of men. The perfect spies, she and the other Novices, though they’d only been sent thus far upon one foray into Far Harad—a Test to see if they could pass undetected. 

“Ready,” she announced.

OoOoOo

__  
**30 October TA 2944 - Saldís’s 16th Birthday  
Erebor**

Bifur shoved clothing into his travel bags, shoulders tight and temper pricked past bearing. With his every action, “King” Dain proved he was not Thorin’s equal. Nay, far from it. Instead of opening the treasury as Dís had commanded, the dwarf sitting upon their throne had secretly ordered their ambassadors and statesmen not to bother. A lass of men, he’d informed them, was of no account to the Khazâd. 

Tempting, it was, to take the matter to Dís, but the dwarrowdam had departed for the Blue Mountains months past. She’d insisted ‘twas best that the transition of Thorin’s Hall to Dwalin’s leadership be announced with the last direct descendant of Durin present. 

The heavy door to his quarters banged open. Bifur spun around with a scowl, his words dying upon seeing the travel clothes on the thief’s body paired with the bag that had accompanied Nori on their quest. 

“Where is it you think you’re going?” Bifur grunted, turning back around to finish his packing. 

“If you think I’m staying here twiddling my thumbs while that…that…”

“Warg’s arse,” Bifur grumbled.

“Aye, that,” Nori said with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. _Wham._ Nori threw his bag to the floor. The thief stomped into the room, one hand dancing upon the hilt of the dagger strapped to his side.

Mayhap it was best Nori left the mountain, too. Bifur was about to say as much when the door received a second helping of abuse, this time cracking as it collided with the wall. In sauntered Bofur, followed by Dori and Ori. 

Bofur smiled widely, a cumbersome pack upon his back. “So. Where are we headed?”

A matching smile warmed Bifur’s heart. Such friends, he had. Tossing his bag over one shoulder, he said, “Gondor. I have a reward to announce to the world.” Dain might be unwilling to open the treasury, but there was nothing to stop Bifur from promising his own sizable share of its riches.

“Aye, and a larger one than you’re thinking,” Dori said, the gray-haired dwarf fussing for a moment before emerging with a scrap of parchment. “As Ori and I see it, all together we have six hundred thousand, eight hundred and twenty-two gold bars among the lot of us.”

Ori bobbed his head. “That’s including our portions plus Bombur’s, Gloin’s, and Oin’s.”

Bifur rocked, stunned. “Lads…”

Bofur offered his trademark grin, clapping Bifur on the upper arm. “Gloin’s already taken possession of it. It’s sitting nice and pretty in his back room under lock and key.” Then with eyes crinkling, “The king was most unhappy about it, too.”

Aye, Bifur could imagine. His lips twitched, eyelids dropping to half-mast. _Forgot a sizable chunk of it was ours already, didn’t you now, Dain?_

Much bolstered, Bifur strode from his chambers with shoulders back and chin lifted.


	6. Graduation

### Chapter 6

**_Summer, TA 2945 - Saldís almost 17  
Caeldor, Tovennen_ **

Saldís adjusted her head scarf to shield all but her eyes. The sun blistered down upon the senior Weapons-Novices with such strength that she could feel rivulets of sweat running down her back. Each day this summer, those in her age group had been led out of Caeldor’s cooler valley onto the plateaus above. 

Truly, the Scorched Wastes had been aptly named. It was nothing but crackled, dry, and lifeless red dirt in all directions. 

A new type of Test—one of endurance. Her eyes descended to her scar, and her left hand smoothed across the leather of the whip at her left hip. 

Endurance. At what price? 

Her lips twisted with bitterness. Pieces of her soul had already gone missing. Novices had died upon her blade. Some had deserved it, wretched creatures who would stab their own dam in the back if it would advance themselves, but some…hadn’t. Some had done nothing but be born to Breeders, Black Númenórean children not equipped to handle this stark existence. She’d looked into their eyes, known her fate if she faltered, and cut them down like a slave butchering a chicken for the evening’s stew. 

What else could she do? She couldn’t find it in herself to accept either death or a nightmarish life of hard use as a Breeder. As she matured, she’d realized it was not only herself who would suffer if consigned to a Breeder’s status. Nay, it would be her children, too. 

That, she would not permit. 

Saldís felt buried under the weight of the many fears resting upon her shoulders. By Durin, she was tired. 

Worst of all was the newest fear to rear its monstrous head—a fear that threatened to topple her terror of the Breeders’ Den from supremacy. The persona of Akhora that had once been her shield had slowly accumulated bulk and substance. With each passing season, Akhora assumed a life of her own. 

And Akhora was a creature consumed by rage. 

Saldís had discovered her greatest enemy now resided within her own head. Akhora had developed a taste for violence, finding on the training sands an outlet for the fury and hatred that rode her. She savored those moments when her superiority was proven and her opponents fell at her feet. She didn’t much care if they lived. The world and everyone in it had betrayed her, promising such sweet lies to her child-self only to rip them away and leave her in this nightmare that refused to end. Rage ruled Akhora, and bitterness, and she was more than willing to vent each upon any available target. 

After all, who cared what happened to _men?_ Men, she was certain, had been Eru’s greatest mistake. She saw evidence of it daily.

Saldís thought she must be mad. How else to explain the feeling that there were two women sharing her skin? Her Saldís-self waged a perpetual war against her Akhora-self, but for how long could she hold against such a fierce adversary? The _khuzd_ she’d been was desperately fighting for her existence. If she could see Adâd one more time, she thought she could hold on. Without him… All she could do was try. For his sake, and in his memory, she battled to remain Saldís.

But by Mahal, she was tired of the struggle. 

A rustling among the lines of Novices returned her attention to the immediate. Pale, black-haired Guitan, the most frightening of the Duumvirate’s Hands, walked between their lines to the front of their assembly. Like many of the Black Númenóreans, he possessed a shocking male beauty, one derived from the elvish blood these men so disdained. Their long lives, too, were a gift from that bloodline—an irony, given the Black Númenóreans’ hatred of the First Born.

Aye, Guitan unnerved any with wits. Unlike the rest of them—even the other Hands and the Duumvirate—the male had not one scar upon his body that any had seen. Their life was hard, and they all bore evidence of it. No one was that good, especially one trained not as a Weapon, but an Arcanist. 

No one but Guitan, that was. She’d seen the Hand fight. Once. That had been enough to convince her to never be at cross-purposes with him.

Another wordless stir moved among the Weapons-Novices as the Arcane-Novices joined them. Row by row of them, male and female, lined up on their right flank. Their heavy medallions bearing the image of the Eye dangled across their chests, and their cat’s claws—marks only bestowed upon those mastering the dark arts—bared proudly. The single stud earring in onyx betrayed their rank, just as her single ruby did hers.

A cold chill emanated from the new arrivals despite the sun’s intense rays. Mayhap it was the pall caused by the shades of the many victims these had slain. Saldís knew herself guilty, but these… These had soaked the altars with the blood of slaves imported in droves from the north. Gondorians. Rohirrim. Any poor soul sold to them by the Corsairs was bound to meet his end at an Arcanist’s hand. 

A sudden intuition. This day would once again alter the course of her life. For good or ill, change scented the hot, dry wind swirling around them. She quietly braced herself, Akhora-fury mixing with Saldís-despair.

“The time of training is done,” the slender man said at last, his face bared to them with his headscarf hanging free from one side of his turban. No murmurs arose. Each Novice stood in absolute silence, but Saldís knew each must be as stunned as herself. This had been their life for so long, she suspected she wasn’t the only one to lose sight of the fact that it would not last forever. 

“Congratulations to you survivors. You have proved your blood runs pure. True sons and daughters of Numenor, each of you.” 

Chins lifted to Saldís’s left and right, but her hands went clammy. Training. Over. _Mahal._ She’d been so focused on survival and avoiding the Breeders’ Den that she’d forgotten… 

She stifled a shiver, but a core of ice formed in her belly. To fight for survival, the Khazâd would forgive if not endorse. To take this next step, to go to war or raid and pillage innocent people… 

Saldís felt a wave of illness as her Akhora-self purred with a dark excitement. The world had stolen all from her. Now, it would pay. Saldís thrust the Akhora-response from her mind as best she could, but a part of her—Mahal protect her—agreed with the Akhora-rage. 

“You will have one last Test.” Guitan gifted them with a cold smile. “A real campaign. Each House will be its own team, judged against the others. For the first time, you Arcanists will work beside your Weapons. Decide among yourselves who will lead each team.” A sharp, sweeping look. “No debilitating injuries or deaths as you debate the matter. Any infraction of this rule will disqualify that House in its entirety.” 

Meaning that group of Novices would be Breeders or fodder for the altars the instant the injury or death occurred. A cold knot of outrage crackled in Akhora’s belly, and she speared her House members with a dire look. If one of them failed here, she’d hunt them all down and slit their throa—

Saldís suppressed Akhora with difficulty. 

“One more instruction. Once you pass this last Test, you will no longer be Novices but assets the Duumvirate and the Six Lords have invested much time and effort into producing. When you leave the training sands this day, there will be no more duels or assassination attempts among yourselves. Nothing not sanctioned by the Duumvirate. Such play ends today. Understood?”

No more quiet knives in the dark? On this, her Saldís-self and Akhora-self were in agreement. They didn’t believe it. Welcoming an asp to her bosom would be safer than dropping her guard among these people. 

As one, the thirty-odd surviving Novices crossed arms before their chests, dipped into small bows, and intoned, “At your will.”

OoOoOo

Not a handful of minutes later, the challenges began. Though no laming or death was allowed, the Novices of each House decided their leadership as they ever had: through combat.

“You should accept Tarthir’s offer,” Saldís’s opponent jeered as they circled one another. 

Saldís faced Valkthor. This being the first round, it should have been unlikely that they’d cross swords, but given his rabid hatred of her, it was not shocking he’d stormed to her like an arrow loosed from the bow. 

Tarthir’s offer? Akhora’s eyes narrowed to slits. To share Tarthir’s bed alone, bearing child after child as the Arcanist’s personal Breeder? 

“You must truly fear me,” she hissed, “if you must displace me through indirect means. The great Arcanist,” she scoffed. “What a joke.”

His eyes ignited above his face covering as they locked with hers. Green narrowed. Gray crinkled at the edges. 

The _muzm_ burst into a flurry of strikes, his long knife joining his scimitar. Saldís blocked the curved length of his scimitar with hers, kicking the wrist of his other hand away before it could connect with flesh. 

A chanted phrase, a wave of his hand, and beetles erupted from the ground beneath her feet, swarming over her body. The suddenness and outlandishness of the attack threw her from her stride. His blade slipped through the rising tide of insects to slice at her. Saldís failed to react in time… 

…but Akhora did not. Akhora surged to the forefront, dominant in an instant. Steel clashed with steel as her blade parried his at the last moment. 

“Breeder,” he hissed. 

Something dark and furious lifted its head, something birthed by years of taunts and treachery. Akhora’s sight turned red. This was the last time he’d dare utter that despicable name near her. The absolute last. 

Coherency fled. Akhora became a mindless creature of war, the beetles forgotten. Her body and sword moved as one like never before. Every lesson clicked into place, and her blades blurred. The clash of metal upon metal was a music whose tempo increased with each verse. 

Thought returned only when Valkthor lay on the ground, her scimitar to his throat and her dagger cuddled close to his privates. A handful of beetles yet scurried over her, but without his guidance most had fallen away and burrowed back into the desert soil. 

Green eyes spat venom up at her. Guitan declared her the winner, but before she rose, she whispered, “Call me that again, and _you_ will never sire children.” A dark and gentle smile curled her lips, one she showed him by lowering her face veil. “I do not threaten. Remember this.”

Saldís walked away from the fight victorious but shaken to her innermost being. For a few minutes, she’d _become_ Akhora. She was so unsettled, she lost her next match at the onset.

OoOoOo

That night, Saldís snuck out of the barracks into the infirmary while most of Caeldor slept. A few bribes, a few threats, and her path was cleared. Collecting the herbs she needed from the dispensary, she mixed them and choked them down dry.

The cramping in her belly started almost immediately, and she bit down on the heel of her palm until she bled. She couldn’t cry out. 

Saldís hadn’t expected the pain to be so severe nor last through the night as it did, but she schooled her body to remain passive upon her bunk. Pain was a small price to pay. She’d take a handful more doses to be sure, but likely, the deed was done. 

Saldís would never be a Breeder.

OoOoOo

The day after House Sangahyando selected blond-haired Novice-Arcanist Dugoran to lead them to victory on their first mission, the senior Novices emptied out of the barracks in full desert gear. Heads and faces were covered with sand-colored turbans and veils, bodies were protected by loose linens coupled with stiffened leather vests, vambraces, and boots. From belts hung weapons, packets of rations, and water pouches.

The six teams departed in silence. Their orders? To march to Umbar. That, too, was a part of their final Test. Wiry, desert-bred cats fell in behind them at no signal they could see. Spies to mark their progress. 

Once they’d left the valley, the six teams parted ways, some veering more northward, while others fell back or hurried forward to distance themselves from the other Houses. A single cat kept with each, and Saldís couldn’t help but glare at the cat padding next to Dugoran. 

She loathed the beasts. It was one such as this, influenced by Kimilzor’s magics, that had lured her from the marketplace at Thorin’s Hall. That, Akhora— _Nay, Saldís,_ she hastily amended—would never forget. Nor forgive. She hated cats almost as much as she did the race of men.

OoOoOo

It took the better part of two months to reach Umbar by foot, largely due to their orders to avoid detection. No Haradrim could spy them. This, too, was a part of the Test. To be spotted, even if they slew the soul to preserve their secrecy, would mean instant failure. The cats would ensure the truth came out.

The five subsisted on their rations and woody tubers native to the harsh climate, and when their water pouches ran out, they did without until they located a well from which they could draw while the Haradrim clan in question slept. The two Arcanists ensured the villagers never saw them.

At last, they reached Umbar, successful in the first leg of their journey. From there, they found themselves assigned to a Corsair ship under the command of a bow-legged man named Hirrim. They had two weeks to learn everything they could about piracy. 

Then would come the final part of their Test: an actual assault upon a coastal town of their choice in search of booty.

OoOoOo

Saldís stood upon the deck of the Corsair ship, the other four members of Sangahyando House milling about elsewhere. For the first time, she and her team wore the traditional black jerkins and close-fitting trousers that was a Black Númenórean’s war attire instead of the looser desert garb that had been their uniform throughout their training.

The Corsairs whispered, eyes often turning towards herself and the other Black Númenóreans with fear and curiosity. Though the Númenóreans had been with this crew for three weeks now, two to learn as much of sailing as possible, the last to choose a target with Captain Hirrim’s guidance, there was no intermingling. Allies, yes, but not trusted and certainly not friends. 

She didn’t care. The noose was closing around Saldís’s neck, and panic trembled through her fingers as they slid across the ship’s railing. 

_Mahal, help me. Adâd…_

What to ask? Adâd was not here. He’d never be here, and mayhap he never had been. More likely, the toymaker had been nothing but a product of a child’s mind all along. A people such as his could not exist. The bleak world she knew wouldn’t permit it. 

In the end, it mattered not if he was delusion or real. She was alone. It all rested in Saldís’s hands. Akhora’s hands.

The ship glided in silence towards the distant coast of Anfalas. Soon, they’d row to shore on the dories packed with their gear. Then, the carnage would begin. Their target was a small fishing community farther along the coast than any Corsair had raided in decades. It was a bold move, but the town should be relatively undefended. She and the other four members of her House would lead this crew as they laid waste to the village, taking what they wished and torching the rest. 

A press of eyes. Valkthor, she assumed. He’d be watching. He was ever watching, hoping she would falter. It was what he longed for, her destruction. Always, he’d yearned to be Kimilzor’s eldest offspring for the prestige he assumed it would bring. While it was true Kimilzor’s eldest was most likely to be named his heir one day, it didn’t ensure the position. 

But Valkthor left nothing to chance. He’d removed the first impediment to his ascension. He’d be only too happy to see her removed, too. Even better if she did it for him by shrinking back now.

Panic clawed at her. She was not yet seventeen years old. The part of her that insisted the Khazâd existed remembered young Finnur and his proud proclamation that he was nineteen. None of the dwarves’ children would ever face this. It was unfair, all of it. 

Familiar anger surged at her anguished indecision. What was she supposed to do? Tears pricked her eyes, weakling and stupid.   
Akhora sneered. _She_ would do what must be done. 

Saldís’s next inhalation was ragged. Mahal. What was she becoming? 

_Adâd?_

A signal from steel-eyed Dugoran, and her time for debate ended. Saldís tucked her face scarf info place, hiding her features, and followed the other four Novices into the boat that would carry them ashore.

OoOoOo

Saldís was embroiled in battle all too soon, swept along in events out of her control. Mahal help her, she little wanted this. An outcry to her right, and Saldís spun around, scimitar and sword-breaker both dripping crimson blood.

Someone had set the village ablaze, alerting the countryside that something was amiss. _Fool!_ Summoned by the fire, men burst upon the scene from more than one quarter. 

One group stood out from all the others: Swan Knights. Bearing the device of Dol Amroth upon their tabards, the heavily armed troop made short shift of the Corsair lack-wits who’d drawn their attention so precipitously. Saldís’s anger climbed higher. What were Swan Knights doing here? 

_Mahal._ Finished with the Corsairs that had inadvertently summoned them, the Swan Knights charged in her direction. Prickles raced up her spine, and she shouted orders to face them to the fifteen Corsairs under her command. The response was automatic—she’d been trained for this.

A moment of doubt. Hate men or not, these had not earned her enmity. They were not her enemy. 

_They are today,_ her Akhora-self coolly proclaimed. Enough had been stolen from her. No one— _no one_ —would rob her of life or consign her to the Den. 

_But they aren’t my enemy._ Her sight wavered as tears burned her eyes and clogged her throat. Thus far, she’d managed not to slay anyone. Lame, yes, and disarm. All done in such a way as to look unintentional. Saldís suspected her tricks against the villagers would not work as well against these trained knights.

The Swan Knights slammed into her small band like a steel battering ram. Saldís found herself on the defensive, reluctant to kill them. The sword-breaker that’d been so successful in snapping the blades of the villagers’ poorly-made swords did nothing but capture and block the Gondorians’ superior weapons. 

The Corsairs in her team died in bloody sprays at her sides. They had not been without some skill, but against these, they hadn’t had a chance. Saldís was soon outnumbered. Sweat trickled down her face. A flare of frustrated anger kindled. She’d spared the knights before her, time and again. Did these knights not have the wit to realize?

“Your days of murdering and pillaging are over, Corsair witch,” one growled, his eyes shadows within his conical helm. 

A grunt, and the knight to her left collapsed, revealing Dugoran in his wake. In silence, the Arcanist slipped to her side.

Her hand was forced. Frustration turned to fury. Dugoran would see her punished if she shied away from doing as commanded now. Saldís bowed to the inevitable but hated what she was being made to do. 

_Why,_ she longed to scream to Eru. Why had He allowed this?

She changed tactics. From holding the men off, Saldís moved to strike at any weaknesses she spotted in the knights’ armor or formation. 

Why did they have to be here? They shouldn’t have been here!

The first, she took down with a jab into his kidney through the joint above the hip. With a cry, he fell to his knees. Saldís turned from him to counter the attacks of two other knights, then kicked the wounded knight in the neck, snapping his spine and killing him. 

A second knight, she felled with a flung dagger to the eye. One after another, she and Dugoran executed them with cold efficiency. The tenor of the fight changed. Fear began to grow among the knights. Better trained than the Corsairs, the knights might be, but they were as outmatched by the two Númenóreans as the Corsairs had been by them. A fact they began to realize. 

One cut and ran. Whether his intent was to alert someone or merely to escape, Dugoran’s short, “Yours,” robbed her of the option to let him go. 

Spitting curses to herself, Saldís obeyed, feeling the walls close in around her. Trapped. The noose was so tight about her neck now that she could scarcely breathe. _Why, why, why_ pounded through her brain. 

Her frustration climbed. Asking why hadn’t solved a thing since she’d been torn from the life she’d wanted, and she didn’t expect it to now. Eru, it seemed, didn’t care. Bitterness swelled to new heights, joining the anger. Perhaps the Hands were right. Perhaps Eru was a lie and the Valar no better than the Duumvirate, playing games with the lives of lesser peoples. They’d certainly abandoned _her._

The knight ducked between squat, stone structures, delving deeper into the village. She pursued after the briefest hesitation. All around, anything not stone burned. Heat radiated from both sides of the street, stealing her breath and giving the air itself an undulating shimmer. From the western part of the village, Saldís heard shrill screams. 

Down one lane then another, he raced, leading her in a convoluted path that circled back upon itself. But then he stopped, planting himself before a small family, and Saldís’s steps slowed to a halt. Two children. Husband. Wife. _Mahal._ Her heart stopped beating. The little girl… That could be her. And the little boy, someone very much like Finnur.

Her sword tip dipped, and the blood drained from her face. 

The Swan Knight flicked a lightning-quick look at the other man. Then to Saldís, “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice assuming a calming tenor. 

Images of the Breeders’ Den, of the bloody altars and the Shadow flashed through her mind. What use, resisting? What hope had men, really? Her blade wavered. Lowered another inch. Two. 

Hope flashed upon the Gondorians’ faces. 

The knight took one step towards her, and her blade snapped up, shaking. 

He stopped, his own blade steady. 

Distant footsteps approached. _Dugoran._ He was coming. 

She firmed her grip on her blade. There was no escape for these. The village was lost. _Why, Eru?_ She felt the cornered canine, and the pressure built and built. She had to do something. A tidal wave of disaster neared with every crunching footstep of Dugoran’s approach. 

Frustration flashed to unmitigated rage. In that moment, the Gondorians before her became the cause of every woe she’d endured. They were men, and men had stolen everything from her. Everything was their fault. Why did the knight stand there? Why didn’t these people run as they should have? Why did they put her in this position? 

Saldís’s eyes narrowed as her fury turned colder. How dare they remain in their safe houses in their peaceful town when children were being brutalized elsewhere? Where were they with their lily-white morals when she’d been beaten? When she’d been forced to kill? 

_No different._ They might wear a gentler visage, but these men were no different than the Black Númenóreans. The Gondorians had allowed this. They’d _caused_ this. By letting Berúthiel go, a known sorceress. Instead of executing her for her crimes, the Gondorian king had put her on a boat and sent her off, uncaring where she went…the very same woman who would later single-handedly begin the rebuilding of the Black Númenóreans far from Gondor’s gaze. 

Their fault. All of it. By their foolishness. Their refusal to act when they should. It was their fault, their fault… Reason fled behind a veil of sanguine rage and hatred. Her mind screamed in fury and an anguish so deep it shredded the soul, her ears ringing with the sound. 

When sanity returned, Saldís’s scimitar and dirk dripped blood. She panted, hair plastered to her skull from sweat. Her body shook with exertion. 

A sick feeling welled up, turning to horror as her eyes focused beyond her blade tip. Very little remained of the knight or family, and most of it unrecognizable. Those footsteps she’d heard before finally arrived, and she turned numbly. A teenager. Not Dugoran at all, but a villager. The kid stared at her, the whites of his eyes showing. He moaned in terror, turned tail, and ran. 

What had she done? Her scimitar and dirk clattered to the stone pavement. What had she done? 

“Nay,” she gasped. Saldís stumbled and dropped to her knees. “Nay.” She stared at her blood-covered hands in horror.

And screamed.

OoOoOo

The rest of the night blurred. A cold numbness had replaced her heart, and she knew she’d never be warm again. Evil. She was _evil._ All the honor she’d believed in, all the Khazâd—

 _No._ She stopped the thought. She didn’t have the right to use that tongue anymore. She tainted it. All the dwarves had stood for, she had betrayed. 

_Coward._ If she’d had any spine, she’d have fallen defending those knights and these people. Instead, she was the monster who’d destroyed them. _Monster, monster, monster_ rang through her mind with condemnation. She’d become the villain she’d always despised in Ori’s stories, and she wished for death, but even death now was barred to her. She would find no peace in a grave. She’d find Eru…and His justice.

Had He any. 

Her steps were heavy as she ransacked the town with the others, taking valuables and trying not to look at the townspeople's bodies.

There was nowhere to run. Kimilzor would always find her. Life was a burden she was terrified to be divested of. 

_Adâd…_ But even Adâd would turn from her now. She loathed herself.

It was over. The struggle. All of it. With tired, heavy steps, she walked to a building engulfed in flames, its heat hot enough to scorch her flesh. Her fingers dipped inside her boot and pulled out the flute, rotating it between two fingers. For a split-second, she could almost hear Uncle Bofur playing a merry tune on his clarinet as a younger, innocent Saldís giggled with delight. 

She hurled into the flames, chest heaving and throat tight with tears. As it burned, Saldís willed herself away, too. Better to fade, to just disappear. She’d murdered an innocent family, and there was no going back. 

She was damned. Eru and the Valar would never welcome her. Everything she’d been, everything she’d valued, they were lost to her. Better to forget who she’d been, to wipe the past from her mind. This was her life now. Darkness. Violence. 

Akhora firmed her spine. If this was all she had left, then by the Eye, she’d hold on to every minute of her life with both hands. Death would see justice upon her, but in the meantime, the world would know her fury. The world had turned her into _this._

With a tilt of the head, she pivoted on one foot. Time to rejoin the others.

OoOoOo

_  
**Elsewhere…**  
_

Bifur shot upright from the inn’s narrow bed, his heart a-thumping and hands clammy. _Saldís._ Chilled pinpricks raced up his spine. There he sat, gasping for breath, trying to calm his heart.

At long last, breathing freely once more, Bifur flopped back upon the thin mattress. A nightmare. ‘Twas just a nightmare. _Mahal, preserve me._ With both hands, he scrubbed at his face, unsurprised to find his cheeks damp with tears. Aye, such nightmares had hounded him, they had. 

But tonight’s… Tonight’s had been something altogether different. The images faded, not coming to mind, but his heart remembered the terror of his Saldís in mortal peril, and he not able to find her. “I’ll not let you go, my lass,” he whispered into the dark room. “Not while I have breath in me.” He cared little if the odds were against him. Saldís was his daughter. He was her adâd. Naught would change that. 

From the other bunk, his cousin’s low snores sounded. Bofur had stayed with him, he had, after they departed Gondor. To Dol Amroth, they’d traveled, and from there north and west. Dori and Ori had headed to the Wold, spreading word of their missing lass from town to town among the horse lords. 

And Nori… Well, Bifur owed Nori more than he’d ever be able to repay. Nori risked the Harad Road to the south.

_I should have gone with him._ Nori had been adamant he go alone, but Bifur should have put his foot down. By Durin, the thief was without fear. _Valar keep you, my friend. My brother._

‘Twas the truth, Nori could go where the rest of them dared not. The thief had connections from his less-honorable days that Nori intended to contact. 

_Do you remember how loved you are, my Saldís?_

He and Bofur were almost done searching this patch of Middle Earth. Once they spread word of the reward to the next town over, it would be time to return to Gondor to await Nori, Ori, and Dori’s return. And from there…

If there was no sign of Bifur’s daughter, it was time to return to Thorin’s Hall and then on to Erebor. His heart warned he’d receive no good news from either, but it was the next logical step. 

She was but a month from her seventeenth birthday now. A young lady. He imagined what she must look like with her black hair, her gray eyes, and that bonny widow’s peak. 

A pang. Did any treat her as the blessing she was? Did his lass even live?

_Hang on, Saldís. Live, my lass. Someday, somehow, I’ll find you._


	7. Fast Forward

### Chapter 7

Bifur marked the passage of each cycle through the seasons with dismay. Aye, and a growing, heartsick realization. Saldís’s twenties passed, and then her thirties. Forties. With each decade, more of her life was spent, each precious sand trickling too fast through the hourglass. 

He was losing her. Not by the hands of ruffians or slavers, but the inexorable march of time itself. It stole her away, one year at a time, and there was naught to be done. 

Bifur read the same knowledge written upon the faces of his family and friends. They all knew. Despite Dís’s intervention and the subsequent readjustment to the reward, no word came. Charlatans, aye, those arrived in droves, but not one knew of the Khuzdul-shaped scar upon Saldís’s hand. Not one of those flocking to Erebor with eyes upon its wealth had any real information about her.

‘Twas when Saldís’s fifties gave way to her sixties that he had to face the hard truth. He’d not be finding his daughter. Nay, not in this life. Rare indeed that the race of men attained to such a lofty age, and that only with proper caring and good food. What, he asked himself in the watches of night, were the chances that his lassie had received that? If the Easterlings or Haradrim had her, like as not his daughter was with Mandos already.

Mayhap she had been all along. 

His shoulders bowed under that final blow. The weight of grief battered him like a siege weapon, and the thought that he’d failed her tore at his heart. His wee lamb. His Gêdul.

A half century of wanderings stopped. Bifur settled into permanent quarters in Erebor, unpacking and stowing away his travel-worn bags. Balfur, Banfur, and Suffia sent word, content enough to remain under Dwalin’s rule at Thorin’s Hall. Bifur missed them, but the memories lurking in his quarters there were too painful. Mayhap later he’d be ready to visit them, but not now. Not while his spirit mourned, finally letting go of the black-haired, gray-eyed lassie who’d stolen a sizable chunk of his heart. 

He’d not be forgetting his Saldís. Bifur cherished every remembrance of their brief time together. Her doll, Kíli, often brought a chuckle to him, even as he bitterly wept at what it represented. Two lives stamped out too soon—the Durin lad and Saldís both. A smile found him to imagine his lassie trailing Kíli about in Mandos’s Halls as she had in the Blue Mountains. Kíli, he imagined, would be tickled by her adoration. 

He found solace playing the flute he’d whittled, one the image of hers. He walked Erebor’s many passages, imagining her delight in his new home, and he smiled as once more, he saw her in his mind, black hair a mess as she raced to him, squealing, “Adâd,” as had been her wont. 

But life did go on. The sadness, aye, he’d carry that all his days, but he spent more time with Bombur and his wife and children. He worked upon his toys with Bofur, and he found joy in entertaining the children of Dale twice weekly with his cousin. 

One day, Bifur assured himself, he’d be seeing his lassie again. Mandos’s Halls would be his destination, too. And when his last day was done and he journeyed there, he’d find his lassie, hold her tight, and tell her how very sorry he was. How very much he loved her. 

Aye. It would be a good day.

OoOoOo

_  
**24 June TA 3017 - Saldís 88**  
_

Akhora’s gray eyes narrowed the slightest bit—the only outward betrayal that she knew she was watched. _Enough._

She and her warriors had been followed all the way into Agar and all the way back. She’d tolerated it, not willing to allow speculations of disloyalty to arise. Valkthor had tried that ploy to remove her, aided in large part his unwitting ally, Thorongil, who’d led such a brilliant campaign against the Corsairs decades before. She’d endured the loss of privacy to ensure the Duumvirate knew her every action, appeasing their suspicions. 

But she’d had her fill. Her personal quarters were off limits. She would not endure that violation a minute longer.

Swift steps carried her to the window, and she snatched up the tiger-striped cat before it had a chance to react. A bushy tail whipped about in jerky spasms as she lifted it until its nose was inches from her own. A low rumble of displeasure emitted from its chest, one of distress and anger. 

_Foul beast._

“Don’t come back,” she told the cat with silky menace and a sickly-sweet smile. “Or I will discover who your master might be, cat, and if he is not one of the Duumvirate or the lord of my House, I will enjoy slowly parting his head from his body. After I’ve removed his entrails.” 

The cat’s tail froze mid-twitch. Then with ears plastered to its skull, it wriggled for freedom, claws scratching. 

Akhora chucked it out the window, hearing its yowl as it plummeted to the landing a dozen feet below. 

Snickering under her breath—by the Eye, that had been long overdue—she returned to the desk against the far wall of her bedchamber. With one finger, the opposite hand dancing upon the hilt of her scimitar, Akhora drew the scroll she’d been reading closer to the edge of the desk, her ragged nails tapping its surface. She scanned its contents, reading the lists of casualties and injuries suffered by the Weapons under her charge during this last raid. 

Her lips flattened. Each was a failure, some hers in the planning, some mistakes by the warriors themselves. Either way, such results did not please her. Long had she strived to carve out a measure of security for herself, and to do that, she needed to make herself indispensable to the Duumvirate. 

And Kimilzor, may he rot.

Happiness was a fool’s joke—she believed in that as much as she believed she could sprout wings and fly—but security? That was the real prize. Power to see oneself above the fray, both respected and feared. It was all that was left to her. She had little illusion about her fate once death found her. 

Not that she cared for Eru’s opinion. That one had much to answer for if He _did_ exist. Her lip curled in a silent sneer. 

Akhora would, by the Eye, succeed. Thus far, her endeavors had yielded satisfying results, but she wanted more. Not the title of Kimilzor’s heir—that was tantamount to painting a permanent target on her back—but she wished a position as unassailable as the Hands. If her leadership meant fewer assets lost during raids, that would translate into more troops with battle experience as opposed to a constant stream of newly-trained Weapons who required too much seasoning to be usable. The Duumvirate would see that and value it. She didn’t trust the two rulers or like them, but she’d never suffered the delusion that they were lacking in intellect. If she was useful, she’d be secure. 

A knock upon her door. Akhora’s hands swiftly danced over her person, a long since ingrained habit that assured each weapon remained in its place. With a neutral expression, and one hand upon the hilt of her scimitar, she opened the door. 

“Ib-Akhora.” The chestnut-haired woman, a Weapons-Master without command of her own based upon the triple ruby studs in her right ear, bowed slightly. “Ar-Tagan and Ar-Cavendor require your presence.”

A stillness settled in Akhora’s gut as she girded herself for another battle. Whether it would be verbal or physical remained to be seen, but no interaction with the Duumvirate was without cost. Akhora inclined her head, face never deviating from its schooled impassivity. 

She stepped from her chambers and followed the younger woman out of the least opulent of the Masters’ dormitories into the street outside. Akhora took a deep breath of the night air. If another game was afoot, she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She didn’t wear the fourth ruby stud of command for nothing.

OoOoOo

Valkthor watched from his shadowed balcony as Akhora strode towards the Seat of the Duumvirate with another Weapons-Master as escort. A minute smirk lifted his lips.

At last, his labors would yield fruit. They must. 

Decades, he’d waged a secret campaign to see her removed from his path, careful never to leave evidence. The misbegotten warg-spawn refused to die. He’d been so close to convincing the Duumvirate that she would better serve them as a Breeder after the fiasco with Thorongil and the destruction of most of the Corsair fleet. Only the revelation that she was barren had saved her from a fate he’d have enjoyed watching. 

By the Eye. One would think her Valar-blessed, but that was impossible. The Valar—cursed, interfering wretches that they were—would never dirty their hands by touching one of _them._

How was it, then, that Akhora kept surviving? The males he bribed into attempting to woo their way into her bed—with concealed dagger ready to strike—all failed. The witch had ice in her veins, for she’d turned each away, and they’d been the males most sought after by female Weapons and Arcanists alike. The poisonous serpents he’d spelled into Akhora’s path never lived long enough to succeed, and the poisons slipped into her cups never reached her lips. Valkthor could recount dozens of failed attempts, and with each, his frustration swelled to new proportions. 

Kimilzor inched ever closer to a seat on the Duumvirate. It had taken the older Arcanist three decades to lay his trap for the Lord of House Sangahyando, Lord Nithirien, but by the Eye, his father had done it. Without any evidence, Kimilzor had seen that one dead, leaving himself to take on the mantle of leadership.

Valkthor had no proof his sire was behind Nithirien’s death, but he needed none. The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Valkthor would have done the same—would do the same—once he had secured his place as his father’s second-in-command. But for that to happen, any competition had to be removed. That meant any promising upstarts among his siblings and half-siblings and, more pressing, Akhora. 

He smirked as she disappeared into the towering walls of the Seat. Though a long shot, every instinct told him this latest trap would be her undoing. It had occurred to him that as his typical methods had proved ineffectual, a new, creative approach was needed. If Akhora’s weakness could not be found in the usual places, perhaps it might reside with her past. 

Akhora’s reputation as a fighter had slowly been eclipsed by her ability to cultivate an unnatural allegiance from Weapons of all ranks, and not solely those assigned to her. Though she was brutal if crossed, they spoke in glowing terms of her bluntness. Where most Black Númenóreans rejoiced in their sly, two-edged words and the quiet war for position among them, any to counter her discovered in Akhora a deadly, raging oliphant. If she threatened, she meant it. If she was crossed, she didn’t bother with finesse. She eliminated the one who dared it. 

To the simpler Weapons, that forthrightness was welcomed. They knew where they stood with her. She would not come for them unexpectedly. 

It was that very bluntness that had given him his idea. Dwarves had a reputation for the same trait. Akhora had been separated from the bearded runts for decades, but as soon as the idea had occurred, he’d known he’d struck gold. Get his hands on a dwarf, and he’d find her weakness. 

He snickered as he raised a glass of Haradrim whiskey to his lips. Valkthor hoped to see the results of his handiwork soon. Very soon.

OoOoOo

Akhora’s lips thinned as she walked. Was this the fruit of another web spun by Valkthor? That she had no wish to be declared Kimilzor’s heir mattered not a whit. Kimilzor played Valkthor like a Haradrim his sitar. So long as Valkthor was kept focused upon her, Kimilzor had less worries of a quiet knife in his own back from that quarter.

She found her thoughts returning to her near miss thirty-six years prior. Her footsteps turned sharper as she rounded a corner and began the long climb up the sloped central street. The blame for the destruction of much of the Corsair’s fleet had been laid at her feet. Never mind that the Captain of the Haven had discounted all her warnings about the mysterious Thorongil. She’d been the ranking Black Númenórean present with the fourth ruby stud in her right ear to prove it, so the blame was hers. 

Akhora’s lips curled unpleasantly in satisfaction to remember the Duumvirate’s boundless rage to discover she’d destroyed her fertility. It had taken a half dozen such doses as she’d imbibed upon the completion of her training, and it had been agonizing, but she’d persisted. Kimilzor’s green eyes, she was positive, had gleamed with a measure of respect in that moment. Akhora cared little about her sire—may the Eye burn him to an ash heap—but he’d argued her usefulness, ending discussion of a bloody fate for her on an altar for her defiance.   
If she’d been driven before, she was infinitely more so since her subsequent demotion to common foot soldier. And by the Eye, she’d regained her command. Akhora _would not_ be cast aside or disposed of. Never again would the Duumvirate dare count her as expendable. This she swore daily. 

Akhora reached the Seat of the Duumvirate and slowed her pace as she scaled the squat set of white, marble stairs leading to the impressive building. The stairs contrasted starkly to the intricately carved walls of the Seat. Composed entirely of a dark stone, the Seat’s outer walls, but even then, it seemed to glow with an eerie light. 

Pillars bracketed each stair, black granite topped with torch-lit replicas of Barad-Dûr itself. Though Sauron could not see through these representations (One can hope, she thought), they ever sent a thrill down her spine. He might not survey all from these, but the Dark Lord had his ways. Akhora was not so naive as to believe he did not watch the Duumvirate and the Six Lords very, very closely. 

At the top of the landing, two pairs of guards, two Arcanist-Masters and two Weapons-Masters, framed the mumakil-high arched doors. “Ib-Akhora,” they intoned, bowing shortly.

Akhora inclined her head and walked inside, cognizant that her escort peeled off. 

So. 

Shoulders back, chin lifted, she walked the long marble hallway towards the raised dais at the end. Unlike the dark exterior, here all was white and gleaming. Wide square columns framed the path she tread, but they could not mask the line of lower-ranking Weapons and handful of Arcanist-Masters standing against the walls to either side. 

Reaching the dais, she dropped to her knees, arms crossed across her chest and head low. “My lords.”

It was Ar-Tagan who addressed her, the gray-haired Arcanist’s voice ominous as ever. “Stand, Ib-Akhora.” 

She stood, eyes upon the tapestry behind him, a portrayal of Numenor’s destruction. 

“I have a task for you.” Footsteps descended the dais to circle her. The Arcanist portion of the Duumvirate did not glance at her, nor did he deviate from that slow, steady circling. With his long, silky fall of gray hair, his gliding step, and face untouched by signs of aging, he more resembled their elven forebears than most. 

“I am at your disposal, my lords,” she said. 

“Of course you are.” Ar-Cavendor appeared in her line of sight. The Weapon member of the Duumvirate sized her up with dark, dark eyes. With stubble-short gray and black hair atop his head, a plethora of scars upon face and body, he was exactly what he professed—a ruthless weapon and leader.

New footsteps from behind. 

“Ah, Lord Sangahyando. Thank you for joining us,” Ar-Tagan said, halting beside Ar-Cavendor.

“Of course, my lords.” Kimilzor stopped at her side. 

“You understand what we require?” Ar-Cavendor, his words short.

“I do.”

At Kimilzor’s bland words, Ar-Cavendor gestured, and Akhora’s world…fractured. Her eyes flared, her breath hitched and everything turned surreal as two, then three, short bearded males were prodded and shoved into the room through a side door. 

By the Eye. Dwarves. Chills prickled the skin upon her arms. 

The three stood some five feet tall, each with a lush beard reaching his waist. Two had hair as white as cream, and the third’s was a dark walnut. All three had braids in their beards and upon their heads, patterns that an itch at the edges of her mind said she’d known like her own hand. Snippets of memories shivered before her mind’s eye, fragmented and indistinct. 

A sick suspicion churned her gut. She’d convinced herself long ago that her childish devotion to dwarves was the byproduct of a colorful imagination, the desperate longing of an ignorant and fanciful child for things that did not exist. Affection and kindness, both a simpleton’s tale.

But in their presence—the Khazâd, some part of her contributed—doubts arose. A tiny inner voice flared to life, screaming and clamoring. It kicked up a fuss that turned her palms clammy and drove her heart into her breastbone like a frightened animal.

No. She would _not_ be undone by the blatherings of childhood, be they memory or imaginings. Her chin firmed. She had not clawed her way to a position of command to let some weakling remnant from the past undermine all her work. 

Akhora steeled herself, her anger rising. Blasted dwarves. What were they doing here? And what had this to do with her? 

Ar-Tagan and Ar-Cavendor returned to the dais. Tagan fingered his Eye-medallion, his pale gray eyes narrowed, and Cavendor folded arms before his chest, his thin brows lowered. 

The three captives were pushed to stand before the dais, but not one said a word aloud. They didn’t need to. Their outraged glares and rigid frames were eloquent enough. The bruises and cuts upon their bodies bore evidence of their treatment and were likely the reason for their belligerent silence. All had thin braids at their right temples and one had a second braid at the left. House and marriage braids, she remembered slowly.

She studied them with caution, uncertain she wished to recall anything more. He of the blue eyes and white hair, he wearing the most braids in his beard, had a faded scar that ran from his hair line, across his nose, and to the edge of his beard. Though she believed him older than the other two, Akhora judged him the most dangerous. 

It was not his appearance, though that was fearsome. It was the way the dwarf carried himself: shoulders back, chin lifted, and a slight swagger to his step. This one was a fighter confident in his abilities. He’d be no one’s slave. 

The second white-haired dwarf had a rounder face, one more fleshly and ruddy. His beard was plaited into two thick braids. One, she knew at once, signified his status as a master miner. Why she would recognize it, she didn’t know, but she trusted the instinct. He possessed a large nose, large hands, and brown eyes.

Last was he of the dark brown locks and eyes a shade of brown lighter than the miner’s. This one was cagey, but she didn’t believe him as dangerous as the first. Young, she deduced. Not a…dwarfling? But no full-fledged warrior, either. 

“Welcome to Caeldor, Master Dwarves,” Ar-Tagan purred with a small smirk. “I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey.”

Silence. The young dwarf looked like he was about to respond, but an elbow in the side by the round-faced miner ended it. 

Ar-Cavendor stood mute, but Tagan glided forward, again descending the stairs to circle his prey. “Be assured, this will be the last land you ever see. You will not find it pleasant.” Step, step, step. Each soft pad of his feet was clearly heard in the deafening silence of the hall. “Long have I heard of the superior craftsmanship of the dwarves.” A serpent’s smile. “For your sake, I trust it will prove true. If not, your blood will bathe the altars as others’ have before you.”

The scarred dwarf stiffened, muscles in arms and shoulders bunching. Akhora fingered her scimitar. If he so much as inched towards Ar-Tagan, she’d cut him down. 

_But give me reason, dwarf._ These dwarves threatened to awaken something long dormant inside of her. Instinct cried to end the threat before that could happen, and Akhora trusted that intuitive warning. She wouldn’t permit anything to jeopardize her position. 

She needed them gone. The conviction flared suddenly and fiercely. Stamped out, removed, she didn’t care how. 

“Ib-Akhora.” Tagan’s focused changed like quicksilver, his icy eyes slashing towards her.

“My lord.” Akhora bowed.

“Tell me, my Weapon. You lived among these bearded cave-dwellers for eight years. It is said their braids speak of their professions and ranks. What can you read about these?”

All three dwarves reacted, faces incredulous, then lighting with some realization. Mutters flew between the two brown-eyed dwarves in their native language, one that caused her head to hurt as it struggled to dredge the words from the cobwebbed recesses of her memory. But the older, blue-eyed warrior spat something and they subsided, returning to silence. All three stared at her with an intensity she felt even as her gaze remained upon Tagan. 

Her composure developed cracks. _Do not betray them,_ that once-dormant part of herself begged. 

Akhora stamped it out, refusing her muscles permission to coil tighter as they wished. It was all she could do to hide her inner turmoil, for to betray an inkling of that might well cost her everything. With a bland expression and cool eyes, she said, “I’d thought that time nothing but the product of a child’s fancy, my lords.” With utmost determination, she allowed her gaze to drift over the three dwarves, the full force of her iron will brought to bear to keep the resulting rage, fear and upheaval off her face. 

“Indeed?” Tagan’s voice cooled by several degrees. 

“She was, after all, but a child, my lord,” Kimilzor interjected, further disturbing her composure. Why would Kimilzor intervene? He had to see a benefit to himself.

Kimilzor’s penetrating green eyes flicked her way. “House Sangahyando has ever been your loyal servant.” A minute smile. “So long as I am its lord, that will not change.”

Akhora forced herself to speak without inflection. “I can tell you he of the white hair and brown eyes,” she indicated the middle dwarf with a wave of the hand, “is a skilled miner.”

“That is all?” Cavendor interrupted, displeasure in his voice. 

“Give them to us,” Kimilzor said at his persuasive best. “I’m certain if given time, Akhora will remember more.” He stepped closer to the dais, circling around the dwarves with his fluid, lazy gait. “We have more Arcanists among us than any other House. Let us see what other interesting gems of information we can extract from them.”

_No._ The vehement denial was instant. Her gut contracted, and as infuriating as she found it, Akhora could not stem the surge of outrage pulsating through her body at the idea. 

By the Eye, what _was_ this? She wanted nothing to do with these dwarves!

Tagan pivoted to face Kimilzor. “If they are skilled, we can make use of them. The war approaches, Lord Sangahyando.”

Akhora lost the thread of conversation as the crusty dwarf warrior met her eyes briefly. Significantly. His fingers twitched. _Iglishmêk._ A stab of pain tore through her skull. The knowledge was there, but it refused to come. 

“Stop it,” she growled. Metal rasped against metal as her scimitar slid from its sheath. The dwarf blinked, his face betraying nothing. 

“Ib-Akhora?” Cavendor, a bite to his voice.

“He was trying to communicate in their sign language,” she spat. 

“Indeed?” Tagan stalked across the marble floor. His hand whipped out, cracking against the dwarf’s cheek. “Angaimo.”

An elf-thin Master Arcanist stepped forward from the line of guards along the right wall. 

“Thirty lashes.”

“My lord.” Angaimo bowed, collected a dozen Weapons, and hauled the warrior from the room. 

The entire time, Akhora felt the scorch of the dwarf’s blue eyes.


	8. Unraveling

### Chapter 8

By Kimilzor’s command, Akhora spent hours each day watching or questioning the dwarves, and at first, she was met with hostile, frigid silence. Well, she wished no more to associate with them than they with her. She cared little about their displeasure or disapproval.

Her hand-picked team of Weapons, however, reacted to the dwarves’ sneers with insult, almost coming to blows more than once. Akhora found herself in the untenable position of having to play the peace maker, by Sauron’s black heart, keeping dwarves and Weapons from goading each other into deadly bloodshed. 

It was beyond belief. Yet despite that—and the deplorable progress she made in questioning them—Akhora included no Arcanists in this task, and she refused to delegate the entire venture to another. That weakling _thing_ from her past would not tolerate either. By the Eye. How was she to force information from the dwarves when that part of herself persisted in shielding them from true harm? 

“Hold,” Akhora said on the fifth day of questioning, her tone kept intentionally calm. 

Mahris’s sinister prowl towards the prisoners halted, the redheaded Weapon’s patience clearly at an end. Mahris flicked her red hair over her shoulder, her right hand white about the dagger she favored when…playing…with her victims. “Why do we coddle them? Give me free rein, and they will beg to tell you all they know. Ib-Akhora—”

“No,” Akhora said in that same voice. She stepped closer to where the three dwarves were chained within a holding cell deep inside the Slaves’ Den. 

The youngest dwarf surged to his feet and spat at her, his dark eyes hard and unforgiving. Akhora’s hand whipped up, again halting her troops. Oh, how she longed to lash out. All night, every night since their arrival, her dreams had been plagued with images of them—dwarves. Whether those she saw in the night were memory or figment, there was no telling, but she’d had no rest in days. Her mind and heart felt raw and unbalanced. 

These dwarves would get her killed if she did not regain some measure of control over herself. Already, her Weapons questioned. How long before that deepened, undermining decades of hard work and sacrifice? 

Instead of reacting as she wished, Akhora gritted her teeth and returned to studying the dwarves, probing the gaping holes in her memory. If she could unlock the past, perhaps she’d gain the answers the Duumvirate required without violating the imperative throbbing through her veins to _protect_ the bearded creatures.

Days bled into weeks, and little by little, more of her past returned to her. He who had been lashed—Hlein, she’d heard the youngest, Gripur, call him—followed her with his eyes constantly. By his braids, she knew him to be a Longbeard and a warrior in truth. Many of the braids in his beard signified mastery over a host of weapons. The battle ax, the coterel, and the arming sword. The alavica—a heavy spear not so common among men—the polaxe, and the falchion.

He was of no common birth, either, though every time she tried to form the words to tell Kimilzor, that weakling part of herself seized control and locked them inside. Akhora fumed, more and more incensed with herself. Yet, she _could not_ override that part of herself determined to see them protected. 

_Do you not understand it is our life on the line,_ she seethed to herself. 

It was nearing the close of the fourth week after their arrival in Caeldor that a calm, smug satisfaction seemed to settle upon Hlein. The cursed dwarf knew. How, why, she didn’t care. Time and again, she clenched her scimitar’s hilt, those too-knowing eyes intent upon her, and forced her hand to relax. 

She felt driven, crazed with the need to protect herself from the upheaval the dwarves evoked. Her temper grew shorter, such that her troops—who had to this point treated her with respect but not terror—eyed her uncertainly. 

By Durin.

Akhora froze in her tracks. By _Durin?_ A chill pebbled her skin with gooseflesh. She prodded at the gaps in her memory. What was it that had such a hold on her? What bound her to these scruffy males? She paced the nights away, driven to fretting over the matter, as if by understanding she could root it out. 

Half out of her mind from lack of sleep and a vaguely familiar feeling that she housed not one soul, but two, Akhora clenched her fists, glare unseeing upon the opposite wall. The could not continue. She was perched on a dagger’s edge and any misstep would see her plummet in disaster. 

She needed the dwarves removed. Dead. If she managed that, the spell would be broken. Their hold on her, eradicated. With teeth gnashed together so tightly that her jaw ached, she began to plan how she might make it so.

Without the blame falling upon her own shoulders.

OoOoOo

Valkthor watched Akhora’s calm air of competency fray increasingly with each passing day and rejoiced. By the Eye. It was working. His feline spies were able to trail her everywhere without her notice, such was her distraction.

What, he wondered, was it about these bearded, matted runts that got to her so? He could not believe how simple this had been and how effective it was proving. 

One slip. That was all it would take. One mistake, and she’d be stripped of command. This time, there’d be no recovery. The Duumvirate were not known for their mercy, and they’d already shown uncommon leniency over the matter of Thorongil and his decimation of the Corsair fleet. They wouldn’t hold their hand a second time. 

All he needed to do was wait. When she made a mistake, the cats would see and remember. 

One slip.

OoOoOo

Hlein scratched at his beard, scarce able to tolerate his own stench. The filth here treated them no better than animals. Mayhap a sight less.

Glúmur snored upon the straw bed beside him, the miner’s arms wrapped about himself. The lad, Gripur, sat beyond him, his pale brown eyes hard as he watched the hidden city’s activity through the bars of their window. Furious, that one, and justifiably so. They’d been returning to their home in the Iron Hills from the Blue Mountains when accosted and chained. 

They’d been sought by those Easterlings, that much they’d determined, and now Hlein suspected he knew why. ‘Twas the lass, Saldís. She was the crux of the matter, for he’d spied another of her kind stalking her like a warg on the hunt. How Hlein and his kin fit into that one’s plans, he didn’t know. But by Durin, he was positive they _were_ a part of the man’s plans, and his had been the driving hand behind their imprisonment.

‘Twas beyond believing, to find the lass among the living. A few strands of gray streaked her black hair at the temples, and her body and face both had many scars upon them, proof of a hard, unforgiving existence, but she was not yet old. 

The lassie was conflicted, that was plain, and though he wondered how aught could be left of the Thorin’s Hall lass who’d been snatched away, he began to suspect that was exactly what he was seeing. Angry, that one. Akhora, they called her, but he’d no doubts about her identity. He’d seen her images for decades from the lass’s family, drawings with great accuracy. 

Too, there was no gainsaying that scar upon her hand. Aye, it was her, right enough. This…this… _Akhora_ was not all that she was, or she’d not be so agitated. Saldís was in there, the remnant of the wee lamb beloved by the family Ur. Her silence about his rank as Lord of Kalil Kilmîn, a minor settlement north of Dain’s halls in the Iron Hills, spoke of that. By Durin it did. He’d seen those gray eyes of hers flare when recognition lit her face. 

Aye, she knew what his braids meant. She knew him for a valuable hostage. And yet, she remained silent.

_Och, our wee lass. What did they do to you?_ A foolish question. Answers enough abounded if one simply paid attention. 

Hlein looked up at the moon. He’d bide his time, and if any opportunity arose, he’d be swift to act. But what to do about the lass? They could hardly hope to escape with an unwilling warrior in their midst. Yet he was not pleased to be thinking of leaving her behind, either.

He sighed. He’d leave her as he must, but he’d be informing the dwarves of Erebor and Thorin’s Hall of this. By his beard, he would. And when they retaliated—and they would—he’d join them. Stealing a child of theirs? Daring to enslave their people? Aye, these Black Númenóreans would rue the day they’d crossed Durin’s folk. They’d be fortunate indeed should the other Houses not descend upon them in force, Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Stonefoots, and Blacklocks included. 

Gripur hissed him to attention. _As if such were needed._ Hlein rose to his feet, nudging Glúmur from sleep with his foot. Murmured voices, and two of the Black Númenóreans came into view. Akhora and a Weapon with thick black hair unlocked the dwarves’ cell and entered. 

“No disturbance,” the male Weapon said as if affirming something that should be a given. 

The male never saw the blade coming. Hlein placed himself between Akhora and his companions she tore the blade from the male’s throat. Her gaze slid towards Hlein. She stalked forward with a feverish light in her eyes. 

A gasp from Glúmur and a heavy tread stepping closer. Hlein waved Gripur off and braced himself. He’d no wish to harm the family Ur with news of Saldís’s death, but he’d not go down without a fight, either. “You don’t want to be doing this, lass.”

A silent predator, she was, not speaking as soft, careful footfalls brought her nearer. 

“Saldís,” Hlein warned.

A flash of something upon her face. She’d not remembered her name. 

“Aye, Saldís you are,” Hlein said. He splayed his hands. “We’re unarmed, lassie. Will you strike down your own people?”

“I am no dwarf,” she hissed. Mahal, but the woman looked rabid. Nay, frantic, he thought. A smile as cold as an untended forge lifted her lips. “You’ve cost me enough.”

Gripur shifted closer. Again, Hlein signaled him to stillness. Little did he need the hot-headed lad lighting the fuse on this keg. 

Hlein stepped towards her, hands empty and held to show as much. “Will you cut me down then?” Mahal, but this was a gamble. He lifted his chin and tilted his head, baring his neck. 

She firmed her grip on her dagger, the whites of her eyes showing. A fine tremor took her hand. Hlein braced himself. The knife whipped out…and stopped close enough to his skin as to kiss the hairs upon his neck. 

Hlein felt his companions’ scrutiny like the lash of the whip he’d endured. Gray eyes stared into his, wide with conflict. _Aye, they’ve not eradicated you completely, have they, Saldís?_

The woman wrenched back, chest heaving and dagger tight. Then the blade slashed out again, once more halting before it reached him as if encountering a shield. Again and again. Each time, her breath turned more labored. 

Hlein’s own heartbeat settled. Should he ever tell his dear wife about this risk he’d taken, she’d flay strips of flesh from his body with her tongue, Naí would. Hlein slowly reached out and claimed the dagger from the woman, careful not to make any sudden moves. Like a wild, fearful animal, she was. 

“’Tis alright, lass,” he murmured, passing the blade back to Gripur. The other dwarf responded in a flash, claiming the blade and lunging for the woman. 

“Nay.” Hlein slapped the blade from Gripur’s grip. The lass snarled, snatching another blade from her boot. “Gripur, you thrice-dipped fool,” he hissed. Then to the lass, “No one here will harm you.”

Emotions flew across her face, each gone before it could be read. But then the last: resignation. “Get out.”

“Eh?” Glúmur.

Gripur wasted no time. Reclaiming the dagger, he held it defensively before himself as he prodded Glúmur out of their cell, leaving Hlein alone with the lass. “Hlein,” Gripur said impatiently.

“You could come with us, Saldís,” Hlein said, once again holding those gray eyes with his own. 

A cold emptiness filled her eyes. “For what purpose?”

Hlein refused to budge without trying. “You have family among us. They searched until ‘twas thought there was no hope. A reward was offered. A fortune, lass, for your safe return.” 

Aye, and something flickered there, something she quickly staunched. “I have no memory of a family.”

A single step towards her, a lifted hand. “They’ll not turn from you. Come with us.”

The life seemed to go out in those eyes. “Didn’t you know?” she seemed to croon. “There is no hope for one such as I. We are the damned. It is far too late.” A gentle, chilling smile. “Eru forsook these lands long ago.” 

A cold mask slammed down, cutting off view of the tortured woman. She straightened. In a curt voice, she said, “Go. Before the cats return. Stay in the shadows and avoid any felines. If you’ve any sense, you’ll head east to the Orocarni. Your kin there can help you. Try west, and you’ll be recaptured.”

Hlein paused but one minute longer, hand outstretched. The woman looked at his hand, then turned her back. Hlein’s hand fisted. He allowed it to fall to his side. 

So be it. But he’d not be forgetting this. It would take time—the Red Mountains were a good distance east—but with the help of the Stiffbeards, he and his fellows would once again see their homes.

And when they did, they had a story to be telling the Urs, that they did.

OoOoOo

Why had she done it?

As the sun rose upon the streets of Caeldor, Akhora could not answer that question. The claims of the dwarf, Hlein, seemed to haunt her. The word family whispered through her mind. An image flashed, that of a dwarf with gray-streaked, dark hair and an ax embedded in his forehead. 

Something about him pained her heart enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Akhora growled and thrust it away as she threw herself onto her bunk. Whatever it was the dwarves had dredged up from her past, it must die again. Akhora set the entirety of her will to seeing it done. 

She was still lying there, staring up at the ceiling, when the alarm sounded. _Later than it should have been,_ she idly noted. Someone had been slack. 

Had the three escaped? Akhora armed herself and raced to rouse her troops. If the dwarves had delayed, it was on their own heads. Akhora issued the same commands she would have before the dwarves’ arrival. Secure the city. Kill anything not authorized to be about on the streets. 

Above all, she stripped herself of any thoughts but her duty. She was gratified as the emotions that had plagued her these last few weeks subsided. With relief, she returned to her normal self. Cold. Ruthless. Calm. 

The next time something threatened her equanimity, she’d kill it first and ask questions later.

OoOoOo

“She was behind it,” Valkthor later told his lord and sire, hands folded behind his back.

Kimilzor, he noted with a touch of frustration, seemed as interested in his words as if he quoted elvish poetry. Lord Sangahyando sipped from his snifter, face languid and unreadable. “You have proof?”

Valkthor’s nails bit into his palms. “She is too canny for that.”

“A compliment?” Kimilzor’s lips twitched. “How very sloppy of you.”

Valkthor’s teeth ground together. An inhale, and he dredged up a smile. “She has been a credit to the House,” he managed, the words choking him. “But in this, she dishonors House and people.”

“Your reasoning?” Kimilzor took another sip of his beverage, still more interested in looking out the window than heeding his most promising candidate for heir. 

How it stung. The minute Valkthor was declared, he’d see Kimilzor’s days numbered. “Who else?” he asked. “The cats that were in the vicinity were all slain—”

“Many of which were yours,” Kimilzor interrupted placidly. “Tell me, _Ne_ -Valkthor, just what were you doing to have so many felines in the area?” His sire at last turned around, and glittering green eyes snared him. 

_Ne._ The reminder served only to rile him further. He should have gained the command and the designation Akhora possessed. “I suspected her loyalties,” he said tightly. 

A gentle smile. “Of course you did.”

“The dwarves were her family,” Valkthor snapped, temper slipping his leash. “Who else would loose them?”

“Why, any who wished to undermine her,” Kimilzor said with brows lifted. The illusion of affability fled from his face, leaving Valkthor staring at the man who had clawed his way to the top and left a pile of bloody corpses behind. “Do not think it escaped my notice the lengths you went to in order to bring those dwarves here. I allowed it because I do wish to determine if Aulë’s children are of any use to us, but that does not mean I am unaware of your ongoing efforts to undermine your sibling. Never forget, Valkthor, that Akhora has proved to be of use to the Duumvirate. You, however, have not. You may take your leave now.”

Body shaking with fury, Valkthor bowed, turned upon one heel, and stormed from his sire’s chambers.

OoOoOo

Kimilzor smirked as the door slammed behind his eldest son. Easily pushed beyond control, that one, but dangerous all the same. He knew the snake plotted his death, and Kimilzor had taken precautions to thwart him.

Valkthor’s limited usefulness, it seemed, was coming to an end. 

Still, the boy had a point. Who else would free the dwarves? It irritated him to think Akhora might yet harbor some weakness for them. She’d been loyal to a fault. 

Kimilzor had no illusions that she obeyed out of any female drivel such as affection. No, she’d always feared the Breeders’ Den. The terror had been seeded while she was too young to resist it. Such a trauma proved an effective weapon the Six Lords had utilized on more stubborn offspring than just his daughter. Playing upon that fear, he’d been able to control and direct Akhora for almost a century now. 

_It could be Valkthor’s doing._ His would-be heir ever plotted her downfall. The presence of so many cats in the area only confirmed that Valkthor had meddled. To what extent, however, remained in question. 

A knock at the door. The expected summons. 

Anger simmered. There was no proof that House Sangahyando had any hand in the dwarves’ escape. Regardless, the three had been theirs to guard. How the breech in security happened, he’d already determined. The Weapon responsible had screamed quite nicely upon his altar. 

A thought. There was one way to test his two eldest offspring. The Master had ordered spies be sent throughout the world of men—Minis Tirith, Bree, and Dale among them. A brush of dark amusement touched him. He’d send both Valkthor and Akhora to Dale. If Akhora did harbor a fondness for dwarves, being in Dale would expose it. The team sent with her would do what needed doing. 

But if not, perhaps Akhora would take care of Valkthor for him. Though the boy was powerful in his own right, he was much too dangerous a loose end to leave dangling when the war finally began. 

Kimilzor made his way to the Seat of the Duumvirate, preparing his defense and smirking to think his largest problem might be disposed of so simply.


	9. What Was Lost

### Chapter 9

_**3 March TA 3018 - Saldís 89** _

Nori strolled the streets of Dale, a whistle upon his lips and a gleam in his eyes. Years had passed since his thieving days, and while a part of him missed the thrill of a dangerous bit of prestidigitation—he smirked, knowing Ori would have hooted at his use of the word—he was entertained enough now to use those same skills to catch other thieves on behalf of King Brand and King Dain. 

It was a mite more interesting than peddling or mining, at any rate. 

Dale was a-bustle this day on account of the unseasonal warmth that had lifted the last dregs of winter’s chill. Spring was in the air, and the city of men showed it. Children scurried about, happy to have escaped their homes after a long winter indoors. Merchants opened their booths, and both men and dwarves wandered about, haggling and bantering back and forth. 

What would Thorin think to see this? Nori’s heart said the king would be pleased, but it saddened Nori that Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli never got to see what their blood had purchased for the rest of them. 

Thoughts of them turned his mind in another direction, too. _No word._ Eighteen years, it had been, since Balin had left with Ori, Oin, and a company of dwarves to retake Khazad-dum. Word of their success had returned to those in Erebor, but these last seven years, correspondence had trickled to a halt. Like as not, the Moria dwarves were busy restoring their home. Nori knew full well what that entailed having tackled the same monumental task in Erebor. 

Movement. Nori continued with his slow stroll so as not to draw attention. _What’s this?_ A man, he was, of slender build, black hair and green eyes. By his attire, the man was a traveler from west of the Misty Mountains. Bree perhaps. But by his movements, this was no simple trader. Each step was perfectly balanced, something Nori knew only came from years of training, likely with weaponry. Who else would need to be so keenly aware of his body? 

The male wandered from booth to booth, but his eyes drifted not among the merchandise or ladies but towards the walls, the guards, and the roof-line. Nori’s fingers tapped out a short rhythm upon his leg. 

He doubted anyone else noted it. The man was subtle. The men and women the foreigner spoke with smiled at his words. _Charming, I’m sure._ Nori’s instincts cried foul. There was something amiss with this chap, and Nori intended to find out what that might be. 

The man passed a woman with matching hair and… 

A sharp inhale. Nay, it was not possible. 

Nori left the male without another thought, his attention homing in upon the woman. Five-foot-six, he estimated, with a long, wavy wash of black hair streaked near the temples with gray. A scar underscored one cheekbone, and another sliced through her right brow, but what caused his steps to falter was that when she turned her head to look upon something to her right, bringing her face full into view, she was the spitting image of their lost Saldís. Widow’s peak, wide mouth, gray eyes—aye, Saldís.

A daughter? It was the only conclusion Nori could make. Their lassie would be in her eighth decade now, an impossibility if there ever was one.  
 _Mayhap granddaughter._ Mahal. Should he broach the matter with the lass? _Aye._ It was a chance to discover what had happened to their wee one, and he’d not let that pass.

If her tale proved too disturbing, Nori saw no need to share what he learned with Bifur.

Nori pursued her, inching ever closer. She halted at a booth, and he closed upon her location. That was when she lifted her hand to reach for a woolen cloak of gray on display. The outstretched limb bared the last thing he’d expected to see: a scar in the exact shape of the Khuzdul rune for endurance. 

Chills. Disbelief. This was no granddaughter. This was Saldís herself.

OoOoOo

Someone watched her.

Akhora had not survived this long by ignoring the prickling at her nape. She retracted her arm with feigned reluctance, fingering the cloak one last time. Her lips offered words of admiration to the merchant without her attention. Where? A surreptitious sweep of the eyes. 

By the Eye. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Bad enough to have those three dwarves disturb her peace in Caeldor with familiar trappings and a hot sun overhead. Here, everything felt misplaced. 

Dwarves roamed the streets in number, and the men behaved unlike anything she had seen among the nomads of Agar or the Haradrim. People smiled, and by Sauron’s crispy bits, they seemed to mean it. Children raced through the streets accompanied by peels of laughter. All of it— _all_ of it—buffeted her like a Corsair ship in a summer storm. 

With fists balled at her sides, she spun around and headed for a nearby alley. The picture grew in her mind’s eye, not of these men falling before Sauron, but the dwarves. She saw hordes of them, bearded and armed, facing down the inexorable tide of Mordor’s army. She saw them falling by the dozens, cut down by orcs, Haradrim…and herself. 

Her breath wheezed from her lungs with difficulty. A wave of lightheadedness swept over her. That pestering, aggravating voice from the past, that remnant she now knew to label Saldís, howled that she could not allow it to come to pass. It heaped burning coals of condemnation upon her head. 

As if Akhora was unaware of her wretched state. _There is no going back,_ she growled to her Saldís-self. _Cease!_ This was an abysmal time to fall apart. Valkthor watched. His cats wandered through Dale in force, granting him eyes upon everything. One inkling of her turmoil, and he’d strike like a hound scenting blood.

She’d do the same in his place. 

Once in the alley’s shade, she leaned against a whitewashed wall of stone. There, she focused upon each inhalation, driving out the frustrating turmoil and restoring a sense of calm with ruthless determination. Nothing had changed. She would do as she ever did: survive. Nothing, not even this appalling obsession with dwarves, would deter her. She’d spy out these men’s weaknesses and feel no remorse. One finger lifted to trace the four rubies in her right ear, the proof of her choices. _No going back._

A hand wrapped about her arm. Akhora reacted instantly. Around, she pivoted, drawing a knife, knocking the hand loose, and slashing outward. Blade crashed against blade with jarring force.

The ground dropped out from beneath her feet. He was older, the dwarf before her. Gray had begun to creep into his beard. But the eyes, the face, they were the same. _Uncle Nori._ He’d told her such wondrous tales and snuck her treats when Adâd—

Adâd. A cracking inside, almost audible in its intensity. Through the fissure burst uncontrolled memory and emotion potent enough to nearly drive her to her knees. Akhora…faltered. 

How could she have forgotten him, she asked herself numbly. How could she erase Adâd as if—?

A flicker of shame-tinged grief flared to life, swiftly drowned by a tidal wave of rage. As if she’d had a choice in her life’s path. No, all she’d done was in the name of survival, and she refused to allow guilt to fester. If these dwarves wished to judge her, they could kiss her backside.

The swish of a cat’s tail teased the corner of her eye, ending the moment of weakness. Her lot was chosen, her fate sealed. Akhora’s face hardened. Without warning, she twisted her dagger, forcing Nori’s weapon from his grasp as hers pressed to his throat. His blade clattered to the pavement.

Yes, her fate was sealed long ago. As was theirs. They were doomed, and they did not even know it. 

“Saldís,” Nori said in a voice that shook. Hands displayed before him, he studied her through eyes both watery and intent. “It’s safe now, lass. You’re home.”

Safe? Home? The sound that escaped from her lips was mocking. There was no safe, and there certainly was no home.

“Do ye not remember your Uncle Nori?” 

So gentle, his words, but she could not listen to more. Hardening herself against him, Akhora pressed her blade against the flesh of his neck right where the artery pulsated beneath the skin. 

Nori went absolutely still.   
“Saldís is dead,” she said, willing it to be so. “You’d best remember that, dwarf.” She backed away one step, then two. “Do us both a favor. Forget you saw me.”

Pale blue eyes burned up at her. “I’ll not be doing that. Saldís, you are. I’m not knowing what—”

A glint of light. A slicing arc of steel. 

No. 

Memory flashed: Nori’s arms around her, his voice husky as he sang lullabies in secret when no one was about to listen. Nori comforting her after she’d scraped her knee, his hands gentle as he wiped away her tears. Deny it all she wished, she could not fight the invisible chains that bound her to this dwarf. She could no more stand by and see him slain than she could flap arms and fly. 

Akhora threw herself between the dwarf and Valkthor, her small blade catching Valkthor’s short sword and swinging it aside. There was no hesitation, no pause. Akhora went on the offensive, kicking towards his belly as she slipped a long, slender dirk from her boot. 

Nori knew who she was. Valkthor would never relent until the dwarf was dead.

Valkthor dodged the swipe of her dagger and parried her dirk with his sword. Then, he came at her in return, short sword slicing at her neck. 

Akhora captured it between her dirk and dagger, forcing it over her head. Green eyes seared gray, and gray narrowed in return. 

“So pathetically easy,” Valkthor said. “The mighty Akhora, brought down by a bunch of impotent cave-dwellers.” 

A trap. All of this, an elaborate scheme? A part of Akhora had to admit, it was a masterful stroke. How had he capitalized upon a weakness she hadn’t suspected existed?

He lunged, blade jabbing towards her abdomen. Akhora’s dagger deflected his, sending it to her right. Another serpent’s strike, this time towards Nori. Her dirk failed to catch it but her arm denied Valkthor access. His sword sliced into her vambrace, parting the leather and gouging the skin of her forearm. 

“First blood,” he said with a smirk.

Akhora feinted to his left, then her foot kicked out, smashing into his nose with a satisfying crack. Blood spurted, and Valkthor’s face twisted with fury. “Arcanists,” she spat. “Ever must they compensate with words what they lack in skill.” 

“You are _anathema,”_ he spat. “The Eye will see you punished, traitor.” A dirk matching her own appeared in his left hand. She registered it a split-second before he came at her, both blades slashing. She dodged backwards, kicking Nori into retreat and tossing the dwarf her dirk. Akhora freed her whip from about her waist. One crack uncoiled its length. 

Nori planted himself at her side. “A whip, now.” A small, crooked grin appeared upon his bearded face. “I’m thinking we’ll be getting along quite fine, lass.”

Despite herself, her lip curled. A strange warmth arose in her chest. 

A low whistle from Valkthor, and her smile vanished. The rooftops to either side of them turned furry as dozens of felines answered his summons. Witnesses. 

Her eyes slitted. If he thought he could dispose of her so easily, Valkthor was mistaken. _Kill him, kill the cats._ She’d have to be fast, before the cats could share what they beheld this day.

“You cannot win,” Valkthor said with silky pleasure. “Once the Eye hears of this, you will suffer the _brih tahn._ You, dear _sister,_ are damned.”

The _brih tahn._ The name touched her like icy wings, but she refused to cower. That tortuous death was reserved only for the forsworn. She’d seen it twice, and both times were imprinted on her mind for all time. 

Akhora managed a caricature of a smile. “Didn’t you know, Valkthor? Eru and the Valar have forsaken us. We’re already damned. It’s only a matter of when we suffer their wrath, not if.” She struck with her whip. The flesh of his cheek split open, leaving a red gash from lip to temple. Another flick of the whip, but Valkthor dodged with the nimbleness of their kind. 

He was not so fortunate with the dirk that flew over her shoulder. _Nori._ Valkthor contorted again with a spectacular twist. The weapon missed its intended target, sinking instead into his bicep. “Dwarf-spawned witch.” He threw something onto the ground with a short, guttural phrase in Black Speech. A flashing light, brilliant and blinding. 

Akhora braced herself, trying to blink the afterimages from her eyes. Nori too had been blinded, she concluded based upon the virulent curses he rained down in Khuzdul. 

Yet, Valkthor did not strike. _Eye take him._ No, the viper would be rushing to their team to inform them of her defection. He wouldn’t risk his own neck when he could relegate the task to another. _Coward._

Akhora gnashed her teeth in impotent fury. She had to catch him. Cutting him down in the middle of Dale’s marketplace was a horrible idea, but she’d rather Dale’s dungeons than the alternative. Valkthor had to be silenced and his cats slain. 

Before her sight or Nori’s returned, she hid her weapons and padded from the alley, careful to keep each footfall silent and her bleeding arm tucked out of view. She navigated by sound, and when her sight returned, she scanned the rooftops.

She longed to take to the roofs, but the need for secrecy had been drilled into her from her earliest years of training. Instead, she slowed to a sedate walk and slipped her blowpipe from her pouch along with a dozen small darts coated in poison. On a man, they’d cause confusion followed by a loss of consciousness. On a cat…

Her lips curled. As she made her way through Dale’s market and onto a main street, she began picking off felines.

OoOoOo

“Saldís?”

No answer. Nori pawed at his eyes, desperate to see. 

“Saldís?” Louder this time and growled with frustration.

_By Aulë’s hammer._ When next he found the lass, he would paddle her behind for running off on him. He cared not how many years she had, she was still his niece. 

Though he’d only caught bits and pieces, he’d heard enough to formulate a grim picture of where their lass had been and what she’d been molded into. Damned, she’d called herself. The lass moved like an assassin, and fury raced through Nori like liquid metal in the forge. What he wanted to know now is who had done the molding, for that one was a dead man once Nori got his hands on him. 

_The Eye,_ he thought with a repressed shudder, ill to imagine Bifur’s child in that one’s hands. _Ye failed,_ he addressed the Dark Lord in his mind. Saldís had defended Nori in an instant, and that told him that no matter her protestations, Saldís remained. Despite all that had been done to her, they’d not been able to stamp her out completely. 

As soon as his sight was restored sufficiently to avoid collisions, he ran. He had to send word to Bifur and Lady Dís. He zig-zagged through Dale’s market with desperate speed, and then ran for the gates, frantically searching for a suitable messenger.

_There._ He halted before an off-duty guard of Erebor, a dwarf by the name of Bilar. “Hurry, Bilar,” Nori panted, hands upon his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Should I be asking where the fire might be?” the dark haired dwarf asked with a gamine grin. So like Kíli, this one, enough so that Princess Dís could scarce look at the lad. Only age, a prominent nose, and a lusher beard truly set him apart.

“I’ve word for Dís and Bifur. Saldís is here, and she’s in a sorry mess. They’d best come quick.”

Bilar frowned, straightening with a peculiar expression on his face. “There is no way—”

“Just _go,_ Bilar. By Durin, Bifur must come. Go, ye skeptical fool. Do you think I don’t know my own niece?”

Bilar hesitated, but Nori did not. Without a backward glance, trusting Bilar would do as he asked, Nori returned to the marketplace. 

“Where did you go, lass?” he whispered, eyes sifting among the crowds of people. He had to locate Saldís before anyone else did.

Then he frowned. He’d noted the glut of felines before, and he’d scratched his head. Now, he was seeing their bodies fallen on the ground and slumped on roofs, and he wasn’t the only one. 

What in Durin’s name was this about? 

_No time._ Accelerating to a jog, Nori hurried back to the merchants’ square and past, choosing one of Dale’s busiest streets to search first.

OoOoOo

Akhora slipped through Dale, changing her appearance through the use of filched head scarves and an altered gait. Dale was in a minor uproar. The eradication of the town’s feline population had not gone unnoticed, and armored guards patrolled through the city’s streets with suspicious eyes.

Akhora smirked to herself. Each time one of the males looked her way, she hunched in upon herself, turning her eyes down as if she was too cowed to so much as speak with one of them. To a man, they believed her act. What made her tone it down was when one bristled and hissed to his companions about the foul riffraff migrating into their town and how some man might teach her husband a lesson about how to treat a lady.

It stunned her. Were these men serious? 

She located Ne-Kharus first. The brown-haired Weapons-Master wandered, seemingly aimlessly, through Dale’s streets with hands loose at his sides. Good. Valkthor had not yet reached him. 

Akhora changed her course to intercept, but before she’d drawn close, Valkthor appeared. Akhora quickly ducked behind a pillar, one of four positioned to create a courtyard before Dale’s premier inn. A few pedestrians looked askance at her as they walked by, but none questioned. 

Akhora spat out a curse. By Sauron’s foul bits, she hated waste. Kharus was a skilled warrior. Perhaps if she spoke to him… She could only try. Her lies would hold more weight than Valkthor’s truths. The snake-tongued Arcanist had ensured that by the many games he’d played upon Weapons of all ranks.

Akhora palmed one of her throwing knives. Then whipping around, she let one fly, the motion disguised by a sweep of the hand to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. 

Green eyes flared, and Valkthor dragged Kharus before him as a shield. The Weapon stiffened as the knife hit him in the throat, and Akhora again spat out an epithet. _Curse_ that man.

Valkthor dropped him, backing away in a hurry as a citizen let loose with a jarring scream. A clash of eyes, and both Black Númenóreans took off running. 

The chase was on.

OoOoOo

Bifur climbed to his feet, the vein in his left temple pounding away like a smith’s hammer. A growl rumbled low in his throat. Near rendered mute with outrage, he was.

The same could not be said of Bofur. “Eh, lad? Mayhap you’re working on developing a sense of humor, so I’ll give you a word of advice. You do not jest where a dwarf’s daughter is involved.” The thin-lipped smile Bofur threw at Bilar contained no amusement.

Bifur’s hand formed a fist, and Bilar backed away in a hurry. “I told him it was not possible,” Bilar said.

“Who?” Bifur growled. 

“Nori.”

Bifur’s heart hiccuped at his friend’s name. Nori would never lie where his Saldís was concerned. Of that, Bifur was confident. He turned to his cousin. “’Tis not possible.”

Bofur stood up from the table where they’d been sharing a late supper. He shoved his hat back an inch on his skull. “Nay, it isn’t. But…Nori.”

Aye, that was the heart of it. If such a message had come from any other soul, Bifur would have dismissed it as a cruel joke. But Nori? That dwarf had scoured most of Middle Earth at his side. He’d proved himself a brother—mayhap not of flesh and blood, but of heart and hearth.   
Mind roiling, Bifur marched to his chest and began to arm himself. A distant part of him heard Bofur doing the same, but Bifur’s thoughts were on Nori’s message. 

Saldís. In danger. 

Mahal, how could he believe? 

How dared he not?


	10. Reunion

### Chapter 10

Bifur and Bofur leaped from their ponies, tossing the reins to the stable boys along with a few coppers. “Walk them off a bit, will you lads?” Bifur heard Bofur request. 

Bifur didn’t wait. He strode into Dale with no patience, his frown deepening to find it riled like a swarm of bees. Bofur joined him and whistled low. Whatever had happened had sent many of the townsfolk indoors and emptied the barracks. What had transpired here this day? 

Bifur had not gone very far when Nori separated himself from the shadows cast by the setting sun. “What did ye do, walk?” the thief demanded with little patience.

A short look between the cousins. “I’ll have you know we near foundered our ponies,” Bofur said.

Nori waved that aside, then beckoned them after him. “It’s bad, I’ll tell you.”

“Nori,” Bofur began.

“Aye, I know what you’re thinking, and I know what you’ll be saying. It’s nothing I haven’t said to myself.” Nori’s gaze met Bifur’s, serious indeed. “Let me tell you what I’ve found. I saw a woman earlier in the market. Black hair with a sprinkling of gray.”

“A daughter?” Bofur interrupted.

Nori’s breath hissed in irritation. With a second impatient wave, he urged them to catch up as he hurried along Market Street, the thief’s eyes never still. “You believe I didn’t think of that? Convinced it was her daughter, I was, or mayhap a granddaughter. I decided to question her on the matter until I saw the back of her left hand.”

A flicker of hope, one Bifur quickly dashed. “It’s been too long,” he said thickly.

“Aye, so I thought,” Nori said with an exaggerated bob of the head. “I spoke with her.” Bifur’s hand whipped out, clamped about his friend’s arm. “Aye, Bifur,” Nori continued. “I’m certain. It’s our lass, and I’m thinking I know how she’s yet among the living.”

Bifur’s lips thinned. “Nori, it’s not possible.”

Nori shook his head. “We assumed much, didn’t we? When we found our lass. Assumed she was of the race of men.”

Bofur’s head tilted to one side, and he tugged upon one earlobe. “She is. I’m thinking we’d have noticed if she and her dam were hobbits or elves.”

“Aye,” Nori said. “But there’s men…and then there’s men.”

A sharp inhale. Bofur froze in his tracks, and Bifur felt not much better. ‘Twas a shocking thought. “You believe she’s of the Dunedain? One of those Rangers?” Bofur whispered. 

Bifur reeled from the ramifications. Why, if ‘twas true, his Saldís was just approaching mid-life. Mahal, could it be? 

Nori nodded, one sharp bob of the head. “That’s what I’m thinking. Naught else makes sense.”

“Ye said you spoke with her?” Bifur managed.

Nori looked away, lips pursed. “Aye. Bifur…” Nori groped for words, and Bifur shook Nori’s arm in silent demand. At last, the thief’s eyes returned to him. “She’s changed, our lass. I’ve been to dark places, places beyond the sea where few dwarves dare go. And I’ll tell you this. The lass that’s been returned to us would be comfortable in any o’ them.”

OoOoOo

Akhora squatted, hands dangling between her knees and her body perfectly still. She’d perched atop the roof beside a window dormer for over an hour now, patiently biding her time. Across the way, her room within the Drunken Swine Inn was being ransacked by members of the Dale Guard along with the lodgings of other foreigners. Akhora bided her time. They’d find nothing—she was no amateur—but that they’d resorted to such drastic means surprised her. One dead body was not cause for such alarm. Surely.

A spurt of dry amusement. Maybe they revered felines. 

Even so, she expected her escape from Dale would be simple. If her experience earlier in the day told her anything, it was that these men would probably turn a blind eye to a woman, focusing their efforts on other males. _Fools._ Truly, these innocents were in no way ready for the war looming over their heads, a war they seemed completely ignorant about. 

A shout. Excitement in her room. One guard waved papers of some sort at another. Her eyelids descended until she viewed the world through narrow slits. _Well played, Valkthor. Well played, indeed._

Her ability to walk among men, it seemed, was over.

OoOoOo

Akhora slithered from her skirts, dropping the drab brown scarf she’d stolen earlier on top of them. A short sneer. Even the Haradrim dressed better than these northerners. Clad in breeches, linen tunic and vest, she scurried across Dale’s rooftops, hugging shadows.

By now, Valkthor would have notified the rest of their team of her defection. A spurt of inwardly-directed anger. What had she been thinking? Answer: she hadn’t. The knowledge that Valkthor had been a hair’s breadth from murdering Nori had evoked such a rage that she’d been attacking Valkthor before her mind had considered the consequences. 

Where had that burst of protective fury come from? She knew better than to risk herself for another. In this life, it was each woman for herself. She had the scars to prove it.

Akhora upbraided herself, anger simmering anew at how she’d thrown everything away. By Sauron’s black heart, she’d been close to untouchable. Now, she had nothing. No rank and no security. Black Númenóreans did not tolerate betrayal. Should she manage to slip from Dale, the hunt would begin. Too many animals could be spies with Arcanists in play. Cats were favored, but they were not their only allies. 

With a snarl, she asked herself, _Was it worth it?_

A careful sweep with her eyes, and Akhora eased her head over the lip of the building’s edge. The street below looked clear. Dale was roused, though. If the cats’ deaths and Kharus’s body on their streets were not enough, whatever evidence Valkthor planted had them convinced an enemy was among them, ferreting out their weaknesses. 

Which, in fact, was true. 

Movement. Akhora’s head whipped up. A cat—likely the last of them—stared with ears plastered to its skull. It hissed, baring sharp teeth.   
Instinct alone saved her. Akhora threw herself to the side, barely turning Valkthor’s strike from lethal into a slice across the hip. She drew her sword-breaker and her dirk, bitterly regretting that her scimitar had been stashed outside the town’s boundaries for safekeeping with most of her gear. 

Weapons Torvhar and Shalarna rose to their feet on either side of her, both with weapons unsheathed and bloodlust in their eyes. There’d be no reasoning with them. Akhora had time for one inhale, and the three attacked in concert. 

Torvhar’s heavy sword slashed out, and she dropped onto her heels. The blade skimmed over her scalp with barely an inch to spare, but Shalarna’s short sword stabbed down in tandem with Valkthor’s scimitar. Akhora drove her dirk through Valkthor’s knee, wildly swung her sword-breaker to deflect Shalarna’s stab. 

She missed. Akhora hissed as the other woman’s short sword sliced into skin and muscle across her thigh. Years of training kept her silent. A Black Númenórean made no sound when fighting. They’d be quiet to the death, the better to mask their location from an enemy.

Akhora reversed the sword-breaker and slammed the two-pronged blade through Shalarna’s foot and into the roof, pinning the other woman in place. Akhora catapulted herself off the roof using the heavy dagger as an anchor. The instant her feet pointed down, she let go and dropped to the street below, her right thigh giving out on impact. She kept her feet, barely. 

Akhora glanced up. The three glared down. 

She ran. Her injured leg protested sharply, but Akhora gave it no quarter. To favor the leg would equal death—or worse if the three subdued her and dragged her back to the Duumvirate.

She raced around a corner, heading towards Dale’s western gates. The location would be heavily guarded most likely. Would it be enough to cause the Arcanist and two Weapons to fall back? 

She’d know soon enough.

OoOoOo

King Brand scrutinized the papers in his hands, his lips compressed. “How?” he barked, turning to his captains and advisers. “Every weakness we have, discovered and exposed.” He tossed the papers onto the council table, one finger pressing upon them in emphasis. “I want to know how, and by the Valar, I want to know _who_ is behind this.”

Captain Gorel cleared his throat. 

“Speak,” Brand said. 

The captain executed a perfunctory bow. “My king, the papers were found in a room assigned to a woman.”

“I know that Gorel,” he snapped at the older, middle-aged man. “Tell me something I don’t.”

The council doors swung open. A guard raced inside. 

“Forston,” Gorel warned.

“Captain Thristan sent me with word, Captain Gorel.” A bow to Brand. “My king.”

“What is it?” Brand asked.

“We’ve spotted the woman, Sire.”

“Good work,” Gorel said, collecting his helmet and marching towards the door.

The guard shook his head, attention divided between king and captain. “There are more. Foreigners of slight build, all of them.” To Gorel, “I’ve seen men training, and I’ve seen the dwarves, and I’ll tell you, Captain—I’ve never seen anything like these four.”

OoOoOo

“Bifur.”

At Nori’s sharp call, Bifur spun around, hand in a white-knuckled hold about his boar spear. His friend jabbed a finger upwards. Bifur craned his neck back to see three dark-clad shadows racing from rooftop to rooftop, one with a notable limp. 

Bifur growled in the back of his throat. The dwarves exchanged short glances, chins dipping before they hurried in the same direction. “They’re after someone on the street below,” Nori said as their feet pounded down another street. 

Aye, that was plain. Was it his Saldís? 

Bifur’s heart ached with the shocks of the day. He’d believed his daughter lost to him, that Mandos had her. Now, word that she lived, and if Nori’s assertions could be believed, Saldís had barely entered her middle years. Trained killers hunted her. 

_Mahal preserve me._

They reached the scene just as the Dale Guard arrived with their king. Four lithe people--of the race of men, each of them--battled as if neither Dale’s protectors nor the dwarves mattered. In the center, a woman with black hair moved like a dancer, dodging the blades of two while a third chanted with a medallion lifted into the air. Black mist writhed like a serpent about that medallion, and Bifur inhaled to see it bore the symbol of Sauron himself. 

The instant he saw the men and dwarves closing in upon him, the chanting man spat something and vanished from sight. A mutter arose from Dale’s soldiers, and Bofur’s hand landed heavily upon Bifur’s shoulder. Aye, there was some foul sorcery afoot.

But it was his Saldís who held Bifur’s attention. Blood saturated the clothes upon her at hip, thigh, and arm, but one could scarce tell by her unhampered movements. The deadly dance continued as the Guard advanced. Men shouted at the three combatants to stand down. 

One, a woman with long, white-blond hair, glanced towards the Dale forces. It was only a wee pause, but every hair upon Bifur’s head tingled. 

“Protect your king!” Nori yelled a split-second before the blond woman flung a blade directly at Dale’s ruler.

One of Brand’s guards took the blow for him and grunted as he fell to his knees before his liege.

“Make safe the king,” a man with a plumed helmet yelled, and the king was hurried from the vicinity. 

The black-haired lass--his Saldís--suddenly dropped one blade, rolled between her opponents’ legs, and rose with whip in hand. A flick of the wrist and a yank, and the other female went down. Saldís’s blade slashed, and the blonde slumped, her neck severed. It had been done quickly. Dispassionately. 

“Mahal,” Bofur muttered. 

Numbness washed over Bifur. His Saldís. Tears turned his vision bright. Who had dared do this to his bright lass? _I’ll kill the villain._ He cared not the odds against him. One day, he promised himself, he’d find the soul who’d stolen her, and he’d make him pay for taking his sweet little lass and twisting her into…this. 

Then determination. As the men converged on the two fighters, Bifur stalked forward from the other direction, boar spear at the ready.   
The male combatant thrust free from Saldís and swept the area with a quick glance. His body language screamed of urgency, but there was no fear or panic. Nay, that one had ice for blood. Before the men closed with him, he said to Saldís, “Death before dishonor.” Then to them all, a cruel smile upon his face, he said, “Enjoy your victory. It will be a short one,” and turned his blade upon himself. 

Shocked silence. 

All paused. All but Bifur. _Don’t ye do it, my lass. Don’t even think it._ He sped up as she snapped her whip at her side, her own gaze making the same scan as the male’s. He saw the recognition flare, the tensing of her muscles. A bitter twist of the lips. 

“Nay,” he whispered, but his fear proved of the wrong nature. Saldís did not turn her blade upon herself. Instead, she turned to face the Guard with shoulders back and weapons held in loose grips. She took one step towards the troops. Then two. Her intent was easily read through her actions.

“By Durin,” Bofur said softly. “She means to fight them.”

Icy denial welled up. Bifur shouted, “Nay!”

The lass’s head jerked, and her eyes turned to him. Shock. ‘Twas written all over her face. Aye, and recognition. 

“Put down your weapons, my Saldís,” he said, daring to approach closer. He could hear Nori and Bofur not far behind. Beyond her shoulder, he saw one of the men, the helmeted captain, sneak up behind her. Bifur dared not plead with him for fear his Saldís would react with violence. Bifur had to keep her distracted. 

The blade in her hand flashed as she rotated it. In a tight voice, “I don’t know what you’re saying, but don’t bother. I know how this ends.” A look of such bitterness crossed her face, one his daughter should never have worn. “Valkthor was right all along. Dwarves will be the end of me.” 

A sound, the man’s boot scuffling on a cobble. Saldís sprang out of reach, landing with back to a wall and eyes darting from Bifur’s group to the men. “But I won’t be taken down easily,” she warned, a dark smile upon her lips. 

Mahal. Impotent frustration and fear clogged his throat. His lassie didn’t remember Khuzdul, and try as he might, Bifur could not force Common from his lips. 

As ever, ‘twas Bofur who became his voice. “Nay,” his cousin said, planting himself by Bifur’s side. “That is not true. Dwarves are your family, Saldís. We’ll be the saving of you. You’re home, see?”

“Home?” A dark sound of derision. “There is no such thing,” she said flatly. 

“You dare say that with your sire standing before you? Your adâd?” Bofur pressed. 

A brief, fleeting look of vulnerability softened her rigid features. Then a hardness slammed down like a steel visor, shutting off their Saldís’s emotions. Her gray eyes again swept the street. 

Bifur urged the men back, but they did not listen. Nay, they eyed his daughter like a mad horse in need of putting down. 

Saldís exploded into action with no warning. “Nay,” Bifur managed as she charged the men with no hesitation or fear. Bifur ran after her, Nori and Bofur with him each step. “Nay!” Not his lass. Not now when she was in reach.

He expected to see his daughter fall to the men’s blades in short order, but instead, the men hollered as one fell before her, then two. Not dead, Bifur didn’t believe—Mahal, don’t let them be dead—but efficiently removed from the fight. 

Saldís slipped between the men’s swords like a creature of war. He’d not seen anything like it. Few would be able to stand against her. Thorin, aye, if the king had survived, and Dwalin or Gimli, but few others. Her whip snapped around many a limb and yanked men from their feet, carving a path for herself. Her blade seemed to find weak points in the men’s armor with an ease startling to behold. 

The dwarves reached them. Bofur’s mattock batted her dagger aside as it arced towards the helmeted captain, and Nori and Bifur insinuated themselves between Bifur’s daughter and the men. 

Saldís snarled, but her attacks faltered. The whites of her eyes showed as she searched for a way around them. As Nori had said, some fragment of his Saldís remained. Just as she’d been unable to allow harm to come to Nori, she could not act against Bifur and his kin now. 

“I’ll kill you, dwarf,” she hissed at Bofur. 

Bofur, bless him, offered a cocky smile in return, flicking his hat higher upon his head. “Now, that would be Uncle Dwarf, lass.”

Disbelief and confusion roiled within her eyes. “Are you mad?”

Bofur’s lips parted with another sally—‘twas written upon his face—when with a second burst of speed, Saldís bolted for the gap between Nori and Bofur. Nori reached for her, but she jumped over his arm like an acrobat of men, rolling and regaining her feet. She was running again before Nori could react. 

Free and about to get away. 

‘Twas then, desperate to save his wee lamb, that Bifur struck. He loosed his boar spear, flinging it with an arc to set it to spinning through the air. The haft connected with the back of her skull, and his Saldís collapsed onto the cobbled road. 

Bofur reached her first. His cousin gathered Saldís into his arms, eyes bright with unshed tears. Bifur fell on his knees beside them. A look, and the cousins quickly began to divest Saldís of her weapons, both growing grimmer the more they found. Mahal, a garrote? _His_ lass? 

Once she was stripped to trousers and tunic alone, Bofur handed her into Bifur’s keeping. She was a woman now, his lass, and a dangerous one at that. He did not care. She was his daughter. 

As the captain and his men circled them, Bofur answered the men’s hard questions. Bifur buried his nose in his daughter’s hair, squeezing her tight. 

He had his Saldís back. But how to save his lass now from the wrath of the men?


	11. Spy

### Chapter 11

Akhora woke in a dungeon cell. Unyielding stone pressed against her shoulder, hip, and knee, and pain throbbed from the base of her skull. One hand eased up to probe the source of the throbbing and discovered a sizable knot. 

What had felled her? She’d gotten past Nori. Freedom had been close at hand. Then…nothing. A sharp crack of pain and now this. 

She rolled onto her back, chains clinking loudly. Akhora grimaced, feeling the weight of shackles around both ankles and wrists. A glance revealed most of her clothes had been removed, leaving her in undergarments and tunic. No weapons. Her hair hung free, so even the deadly adornments she’d secreted in her tresses had been stripped away. A tight bandage covered her thigh where Shalarna’s blade had sliced her, and another covered her hip. Her hand wandered next to her arm. It, too, sported a clean, white dressing.

Her hand dropped to her side. Adâd. Uncles Bofur and Nori. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling both the jaded older woman and the lost girl-child wishing to hide from her father’s disappointment and disapproval. Akhora sneered at herself. _Milksop._

A burst of self-directed anger shook her. If she’d been a true Weapon, she’d have eviscerated the men in her path and won her freedom before the dwarves could intervene. Instead, one sight of Bifur had robbed her of the ability to take a life. 

_Not in front of him. Never in front of Adâd,_ a part of her maintained, unyielding even in the face of her captivity to admit it was wrong. 

Kimilzor had been correct back in Forochel. She was defective. Only that could explain her reticence to cut down a few measly dwarves to gain her freedom. 

She was a sentimental fool.

OoOoOo

Bifur trailed behind Bofur as his cousin continued to plead with King Brand.

“…realize the lass has wronged you, but if you’d just let her father see her,” Bofur cajoled, trotting to keep up with Brand’s longer strides as they traveled down a hallway towards the king’s counsel chambers. 

Brand’s hazel eyes swept from Bofur to Bifur. “I’ve already been lenient. That woman is dangerous, Bofur.” Brand halted, his handful of guards doing likewise. 

“Aye, true enough,” Bofur said. “But she’s shown she won’t act against a dwarf. We’d be the better choice to watch over her.”

“Will you do what must be done if she turns upon you?” Brand asked, his face severe. “I cannot permit her to escape. You saw what she was capable of. Eight trained men are in the infirmary because of her. _Eight.”_

Bifur tugged upon his beard, eyes intent upon his cousin, urging him to continue.

“Aye, but none dead,” Bofur said. “I’m thinking if our lass had wanted them slain, ye’d have corpses instead of injured men.”

Though it pained Bifur to agree, he knew Bofur spoke true. His lass could have done a lot more damage. The same question rattling about in his mind, he heard emerge from Brand’s lips: “Why?”

Bofur’s free hand lifted, expressing his ignorance. 

“Why let my men live?” Brand next addressed to Bifur.

By the Valar, Bifur wished he knew. It gave him hope, though he knew it folly to entertain it. 

Brand sighed. His lips flattened. In a softer voice, he said, “I want to know who sent these foreigners. I need information from her, and to be quite frank, that’s the only reason I’ve held my hand.”

Bofur opened his mouth to speak again, but Brand’s short shake of the head stopped him. “I’ve yet to understand how she could possibly belong to you.” Another searching look went from Bofur to Bifur. “I’ll allow you to be present when I question the woman. But understand, Bofur…” Brand’s expression gentled. “…as much as my father felt indebted to you for your actions the night Smaug flew, I must consider my people. My son. Bard, too, might be targeted.”

Bofur tugged upon one earlobe. “I’m not without sympathy, and I’d not ask you to place yourself or your family in harm’s way. We only ask to see her. We’ll stay outside the cell. You have my word on that.” Seeing Brand’s indecision, Bofur added, “We’ve looked for decades. From Gondor and Rohan to the wild men of Minhiriath. We thought her dead. To see her now, and like this…” Bofur splayed his hands.

Brand drummed fingers upon his leather belt, brows lowered. The spitting-image of his grandsire, King Bard I, Brand was, and like unto the man in temperament as well. In his late thirties, Brand was tall of stature and noble in appearance. A shrewd king. Bifur had never thought badly of him, and he determined not to start this day. 

A difficult task with Saldís in the balance. 

“Alright,” Brand said at last, rubbing his forehead. Dropping the hand, he continued, “My men found evidence of spying in her rooms. If she says anything, anything at all, I need to know it.” A bitter twist of the lips. “They found weaknesses I didn’t even know we had.” Brand waved his fingers. “I’ll send for King Dain. Since you say this…Saldís?” At Bifur’s nod, Brand continued, “Since you claim Saldís, he’ll have a voice in deciding her fate. Captain Thristan, take them to see the prisoner.”

The captain, a blond with strong features and sharp brown eyes, inclined his head. “My king.” Then turning to them, “With me, Master Dwarves.”

Bifur held Brand’s gaze a moment longer, saluting with a fist to his heart. A fleeting smile from Brand, and Bifur followed after the captain.

OoOoOo

Akhora rose to her feet, cognizant when the two infernally stubborn dwarves who’d kept vigil with her the last few hours did the same. Captain Thristan—the junior among Dale’s three captains, she knew from her team’s reconnaissance—addressed the dwarves first. A father of three, the captain. He had a plump wife with rosy cheeks, a modest home in a southern portion of Dale, and a distinct fondness for his wife’s cooking.

She wondered if he had any inkling how much her people now knew about him due to his position. Likely not. These men seemed ignorant about the art of war. They didn’t realize that knowledge was power. Know enough about a man, and you could anticipate his moves. Control him, even. 

“Why, it’s the good captain,” her unc— 

_No._ She distanced herself in her thoughts with difficulty, something that grew more challenging with each moment spent in the dwarves’ company. 

Thristan nodded at the two dwarves. “Your king has arrived. He wishes to speak with you both.” Thristan next turned to Akhora. “King Brand will determine your fate, woman. But I tell you now, eight of my men lie bleeding by your hand. I give you but one warning. Make a move I don’t like, and I will see you dead.”

She responded with a lifted brow. Did he believe she would quail before him? Whatever these men decreed would be swifter and more merciful than anything the Dark Lord or her own people would mete out. Too, there remained a slight chance she’d be able to escape. A Weapons-Master was nothing if not versatile.

“Out,” the captain barked. More guards appeared behind him, each heavily armed and wary. 

Her lip curled. So many weapons from which to choose. It was nice of them to bring them to her. 

No, these men were not ready for the war to come. They were sheep, milling about and bleating to one another, never spying the pack of wolves circling.

Akhora stepped from the cell, mute as her shackles were secured to a lead chain held in a muscular guard’s hand. That one would have to be her first target if a promising opportunity arose. Alas, she didn’t much care for the ponderous broadsword or throwing axes that were his weapons of choice. For that, she’d need to shop among his brothers. 

At Thristan’s jerk of the head, Akhora claimed her spot in the center of the men, careful to avert her eyes from the older of the two dwarves. With each glimpse of his profile and every word from his lips, her heart gave a painful lurch. 

Why would he not go away? Bifur had seated himself by the bars of her cell hours before and thereafter refused to budge. He’d spoken to her constantly, something that struck her as out of character. Her uncommunicativeness didn’t deter him one bit. Hour by hour, he continued, his conversation peppered with the occasional question, the heavy press of his stare a constant thing. 

Though she gave no outward evidence, Khuzdul had begun to return to her in bits and pieces along with memories that scalded. She’d intentionally forgotten, and now she knew why. She remembered fragments of a childhood among his people, and of laughter, cuddles, and safety. The recollections would undo her if she let them. 

The fetters jangled as she walked down a narrow, dank hallway to a flight of crude stairs. Up they went, guards before and guards behind, to the next floor and then down more hallways.

OoOoOo

Bifur said not a word to his cousin as they followed after Saldís and her guards. He’d studied the lass in the time he’d sat with her, and not solely to determine who she’d become. His mind raced with each beat of his heart, searching endlessly for some argument to see her spared.

Espionage. Service to the Dark Lord. Mahal. He’d had many a nightmare about her fate, but this he’d never dreamed. The scars he’d found upon her body when divesting her of weapons told a tale that robbed the marrow from his bones, it did. He had not let anyone else see, and mayhap that had been a mistake. But such seemed private to him. She’d lost so much already. He’d not have her made a spectacle. 

She’d returned to him as if from the grave, and he would not lose her again. Not while there was breath in his body. Bifur had failed his daughter once. He wouldn’t do so again.

OoOoOo

Akhora stood before a robed and crowned King Brand, unflinching at the weight of his regard. From beneath eyelashes, she searched out every exit and weapon in the expansive room. Escaping from here might be well-nigh impossible…but only well-nigh. She’d rather be cut down in the attempt than led to the slaughter like a meek lamb.

The place was full to bursting. It seemed Brand had no reservations about alarming his people, a fact she mused was probably wise. Yes, they’d likely panic, but by shoving their noses in their peril, perhaps these people could be whipped into fighting shape before the war began. 

If their king grew a backbone. 

Brand sat upon his throne. Regal enough, she supposed, though to her jaundiced eye, he also seemed irresolute and weak. Either of the Duumvirate would have had her bleeding by this point. But then, the Duumvirate would do things to her—to any who displeased them—that the good king would never consider. 

Beside him sat King Dain, a dwarf with a square chin, fat lips, and dark hair touched with gray. Dwarves—dwarrow, a part of her corrected—stood like an honor guard around him, all hard-eyed, bearded and suspicious. Akhora gave them a measuring look. They would be a bigger challenge. Like the dwarf Hlein, these dwarrow exuded a confidence by their wide-legged stances that spoke of experience. If she attempted escape, she would not be fleeing in their direction.

The throne room was less imposing than the Seat of the Duumvirate, both in size and tenor. Where the Seat was harsh white with nothing to soften its hard edges, this room had colorful tapestries warming the walls and an expensive length of beautifully detailed carpeting spread at the foot of the dais and throne. Nobles and officers clustered around the room’s periphery, watching and murmuring to one another. 

Bifur had refused to leave her side. He stood to her left, his weapon carefully held on the other side of his body from her. If he’d done otherwise, she’d have labeled him a fool, but the assessing look upon his face said he was anything but. Bofur remained in the background near the entrance to the hall, and Nori she hadn’t seen since her capture. Lined up behind her and a few paces to either side were members of the Dale Guard.

Fourteen of them. Akhora smirked. It would be interesting to discover if fourteen were sufficient. 

King Brand’s fingers steepled before him, the tips tapping his chin. After a sideways look at Dain, he seemed to come to a decision. “We have an enemy,” he informed the people in the room. “If we thought ourselves safe so far removed from Mordor, we were mistaken.”

The room rang with silence. 

Brand’s hand lifted papers off a small table beside him. “Chinks in our defenses. Dozens of them found by agents presumably of Sauron. We do not know if Erebor has been subject to the same scrutiny.” Akhora sensed a score of eyes boring holes into her. 

“One can assume she has been questioned?” 

Akhora’s focus slid to the side to locate a man with sharp, weasel-like features and a pitiful excuse for a beard. As he stroked his jaw, gemstones glinted upon his fingers…and his beady eyes drifted over her with insolence. 

Akhora let threat enter her eyes, and the man cleared his throat, looking away in a hurry. _Amateur._

By only a bat of the eye did King Brand betray he’d noted the exchange. “We’ll be getting to that, Lord Harmon,” Brand said.

“Why delay?” the man asked, interrupting Brand’s next words. Akhora’s estimation of the king sank to a new low. Any of the Six Lords would have slain the man for his impertinence. Or delighted in watching him scream on an altar for a protracted period of time. 

At the nobleman’s question, the room again sounded with mutters. Further proof of weakness. If his own people held Brand in such disdain, what had the Black Númenóreans to fear here? This people would never make a good defense. They were too disorderly. Fragmented. Spies were wasted here.

“Because the woman in question belongs to Erebor,” Brand returned with marked irritation. 

As whispers rushed through the room, King Dain cleared his throat. “I’m not certain I’d be putting it that way. The lass—if this is she—was taken from us eight decades ago. It’s doubtful—”

“Eight decades?” another wealthy man interjected, his pale brows winging upwards.

“Aye, which is why it cannot be her,” Dain proclaimed.

OoOoOo

The words were no sooner uttered than Bifur strode forward, nostrils flared. “Are ye implying I’d not recognize my own daughter?” he demanded of Dain in Khuzdul.

Dain leaned forward in his seat. “It has been eighty years,” Dain said in the same language. “Your daughter, Bifur, is dead.” Dain showcased empty palms before him. 

Bifur held his temper. From behind him, Bofur’s merry voice, “Well now, under normal circumstances you might be correct.”

“What do you mean?” Dain frowned, his gaze sliding beyond Bifur’s shoulder.

“The Rangers of the North live much longer,” Bofur said with a helpful smile. 

Bifur tacked on flatly, “I know my daughter. This is she.” 

Dain rubbed his face, then pounded one fist upon the arm of his chair. “Durin’s beard, Bifur, has it escaped your notice that this woman is a spy?” 

“She is my daughter,” Bifur maintained in a hard voice. 

Dain growled, face reddening. “I’ll not have you claiming affiliation with her and bringing disgrace upon our people.” Hard blue eyes ran over Saldís with disgust, pricking Bifur’s ire all the more. “Even if this woman was once your daughter, _that_ is not.”

A vein in Bifur’s temple began to throb. “Aye, and I suppose you’d be forsaking your heir, Thorin Stonehelm, if he stood here.”

Dain’s spine snapped straight. “My son is of the Khazâd, not some strumpet’s spawn found upon the side of the road,” he bellowed. A finger jabbed in Bifur’s direction. “You watch your tone, toymaker. I won’t stomach disrespect.”

Bifur’s hands whitened about his spear. “Thorin Oakenshield himself acknowledged the adoption. This lass is as much a member of the Khazâd as one true-born. I’ll not listen to you insult her. She is my daughter.” One fist thumped his chest. “Does not the blood of the Longbeards run through my veins? Am I to be a Petty Dwarf, forsaking my child?” He took another step closer, grip on his boar spear turning painful. “Are the Longbeards now lacking in honor that their king would turn upon one of his own?”

Dain, too, strode forward until they were but a pace apart. The king’s chest puffed out as his chin descended towards his chest. “A Longbeard would never serve Mordor. None of our line have ever fallen into Shadow. But that,” he spat, this time thrusting the finger at Bifur’s lass, “is no Longbeard, no matter my cousin’s foolishness in catering to your nonsensical whim. Did the ax addle your wits as well as your tongue? She is a child of _men._ She has no place among us.” 

Dain’s hand scarce finished cutting through the air in denial when Bifur’s fist slammed into his king’s jaw. The room erupted into chaos. People shouted from all directions, men and dwarves both. Dain’s guards rushed forward, grabbing Bifur with hard hands and tearing him away from their liege. Bifur lunged, throwing another punch that fell short of its target.

“You dare assault your king? Lift hands against your king?” Dain shouted above the uproar.

“You’re no king of mine,” Bifur roared. _“Thorin_ was my king. You’re but a puffed-up—”

A short horn blast silenced the room. 

“Bifur.” The sharp, feminine voice reined in his temper. Shrugging away from the dwarves holding him, he turned and bowed to Lady Dís as she strode down the center of the room, small horn held in one hand and Thorin’s original sword, Death-Bringer, strapped to her back. Relief stole through him. Nori had succeeded. He’d brought word of Bifur’s plight to Dís.

Dressed in finery suitable for her station, the dwarrowdam also wore an armored chest piece over her gown and a flat circlet about her head. Her beard was decorated with blue sapphires and divided into five short braids. Confident strides carried her down the length of the hall in short order.

When she reached Bifur’s side, Dís arched one eyebrow. “Some prudence might have been advisable, Bifur.” She touched his arm. “See to your daughter.”

Bifur bowed again to the princess, his forehead furrowing. Why would he need to see to…? 

His eyes widened at the scene unfolding in the rear of the hall. _Mahal._ Three of his daughter’s guards were on the ground, one with a leg bent at an unnatural angle, another gasping for breath with hand to his throat, and a third comatose. Only the rise and fall of the third man’s chest assured he lived. 

While he’d been looking to thrash his king, his daughter had capitalized upon the distraction he’d caused. He groaned lowly. Her fate balanced upon a pin’s head as it was. This could not be helpful.

Nor, he admitted, were his actions. 

Saldís stood cornered by Nori and Bofur, the remaining eleven guardsmen lined up behind them with grim faces. Outraged, the lot of them, and justifiably so, Bifur would grant. Swaying upon the balls of her bare feet and lead chain to her shackles held as a weapon, his daughter looked the savage, and the expression on her face fair dared the men to try her. 

Bifur thrust his spear into his cousin’s hands as he passed him, marching towards his daughter without hesitation. Dís’s voice rose behind him, but he missed her words as Saldís growled, “Don’t tempt me, dwarf.”

Bifur folded his arms before his chest, gentled his expression and clucked his tongue. “I seem to recall a conversation we had, Gêdul, in which ye claimed a dwarf’s most notable trait was his stubbornness.” He twisted about to eye her fallen foes. “I’m thinking you’re once again proving my point.” Stepping closer, _“Iridzu du-khuzd,”_ he said, “though long have ye been left without the guidance and protection of your people.” 

A glimmer of hope. She understood him. Mayhap not every word, but she’d caught the substance, right enough, for her face went white. Aye, she remembered. She might not wish to, but ‘twas evident. 

Bifur extended his hand patiently, holding his Saldís’s gray eyes with his own. Incredulity and anger came first. Then frustration crossed her face. Her grasp upon the chain tightened until her knuckles stood out in stark relief. 

Grief walloped him as he stood there watching her. His wee lass. Taller than himself now, she was, by a good four inches. Her face wore lines bracketing eyes and lips, the first signs of aging. Not a child any longer but still _his_ child. 

“You’ll not get by me,” he said as she continued to struggle within herself. 

Her jaw hardened and the chain twisted between her hands. 

“There is no need for this, my Saldís,” he said softly, hand yet extended. “I’ll not be allowing any harm to come to you.”

At last, she placed the chain’s end in his hand with a disgruntled expression upon her face. “My name,” she growled, stomping past him, “is Akhora.”

OoOoOo

Akhora seethed, giving herself a thorough tongue-lashing as King Brand read the charges against her. Bifur— _Adâd,_ a traitorous part of her insisted—had positioned himself to her left and Bofur to her right. Nori, she knew, fiddled with his daggers and tapped his fingers a few paces behind.

The dwarves had recognized that she wouldn’t harm them and took advantage of it. Impotent fury sizzled through her like acid. It was beyond the pale. She owed them nothing. They were nothing. Yet any time one approached, this stupid, weakling _thing_ claimed her. 

The questions came next, hard demands from more than one source. Brand, his advisers, even two of the dwarves tried their hand at drawing information from her. Akhora remained silent. She cared little about the Six Lords or the Duumvirate. It was not loyalty that held her tongue. 

No, it was the fury, the ever-present, stiff-necked refusal to bow to this world. If this was to be her end, the world could kiss her backside before she’d do it any favors. It could burn for all she cared.

When the men and dwarves finally resorted to threats, Akhora’s world conversely stabilized. This, she understood. Life was pain and struggle. Endurance. That word rang in her mind, but she dismissed the odd notion that it was important. 

“Did you not hear me, female?” one of Brand’s men asked, stepping closer. Bifur sidled nearer as if to intercept the man, and the man reacted. Spinning to Dain, “We can not do as we must with your people protecting our enemy, King Under the Mountain.”

“Lord Veith,” Brand began.

“Nay, he has the right of it.” Dain pointed a finger at her Ad—Bifur. “Step away from the female, toymaker.”

“And remove the only impediment preventing her from destroying as many of my men as she can before she’s taken down herself? I deem that unwise,” Brand interjected. His gaze cut to Akhora, assessing. “No,” he said at last, voice heavier. “Torture will not work. Look at her. No fear. No hesitation. It is almost as if she’s already experienced…” 

Brand’s brown eyes flared as they burned into hers. What he looked for, she wasn’t certain, but she refused to be the first to turn away. Inside, she growled in frustration. If the man had not intervened, the three dwarves who’d been so problematic would have been removed. And she would have been free to throw herself at the eleven remaining guardsmen. 

Brand frowned. “She won’t break. There is no point in carrying out our threats.”

Blast Brand for being more perceptive than she’d given him credit for. Akhora’s nostrils flared. He’d robbed her of her best chance at escape. 

In the end, the king abandoned efforts to question her as futile. Her sentence was decreed as she’d known it would be. The King of Dale stood before his throne and announced his decision.

Death by decapitation.


	12. Love

### Chapter 12

Valkthor faced the distant, flickering lights that were all that remained visible of Dale from his location. Akhora was done. A rush of exultation burned through his chest and throat. There was no escape, not with the number of guards he’d seen stationed outside the throne room before he’d slipped away. 

His sole remaining cat hid in the rafters above the dais where the royalty of both Dale and Erebor sat, its tail curled around its body. Valkthor wished his warg-spawned sister would cower before the barrage of questions and threats coming her way, but he didn’t expect it. No Arcanist or Weapon would flinch at the men and dwarves’ decidedly juvenile attempts to intimidate. 

Akhora stood impassive, but at least he had the joy of seeing her in chains through the feline. That memory, he’d cherish for decades to come. He waited only until her sentence was decreed.

_I win. Goodbye, Akhora._

He released his hold on the cat. With a jaunty, soundless whistle, he mounted his stolen horse and headed south. Dawn was approaching, and he had no intention of being in the vicinity when the sun finally rose.

OoOoOo

“Nay.” Bifur’s heart near ruptured at Brand’s decree, robbing his voice of all strength. Dain had elected not to weigh in on Saldís’s fate, and Bifur had dared to hope.

Decapitation? Bifur would never allow it. “Ye’ll not take my daughter,” he growled. He’d not be burying Saldís. The butt end of his spear thumped against the floor as he planted himself in front of her. “Not my Saldís.” No force upon Arda could make him move. 

Brand descended from the dais with heavy steps, his face aged years in the hours since Saldís had been brought before him. He halted only when Bifur hefted his spear in warning, the tip pointed at the king of men. Brand waved off his two guards when they objected, their own hands reaching for their weapons. 

The king’s expression turned all the more somber. “In this, I need no aid to understand you, Bifur. A father well knows the pain another would experience at the loss of a child.” Brand’s hands clasped together before him, his brown eyes filled with compassion. “But she will not speak, my friend. She is loyal to Mordor. I cannot allow such a woman to walk freely. Deep inside, you know this.”

_Mahal._ Bifur had not thought he could hurt worse than when he’d lost his child the first time. He felt absolutely helpless. “Let her return with us,” he said thickly. “We’ll take her far from here. But do not kill my child, Brand. Don’t be slaying my daughter.” His voice broke at the end. Bifur inhaled deeply, blinking to restore his sight. 

‘Twas Bofur who stepped to Bifur’s side. As ever, it was Bofur, his most staunch ally. His cousin repeated Bifur’s words and added a plea of his own, but Brand remained unswayed. 

To Bifur’s cousin, Brand addressed, “And if she escapes you? What then, Bofur? By the Valar,” the king said, hands waving, “in the time it took Bifur to throw one punch, she incapacitated three of my guards!” Brand stepped nearer to Bofur with a leery glance towards Bifur’s spear. Shame touched Bifur at that, for what use threatening a man he’d known as a child like this? 

“You heard them, Bofur. All of my advisers and half of Dain’s demand she be tortured for answers. And more disgrace to me, I agree with them. Torture. A _woman!_ The only reason I offer the mercy of a quick, clean death is for you. For the debt my people owe you and the fondness I bear for your family.”

Aye, and that fondness was reciprocated. How well Bifur remembered the day of Brand’s birth. Bain had been so proud. Bifur and Bofur had crafted such toys for the lad…

But… _Saldís._ Nay. Nay, Bifur would not let it happen. Not to the lass who’d giggled as he’d tickled her toes. The lass who’d tugged upon his beard-braid and snuggled into his arms with such sweet trust. Acid tears clogged his throat further as desperation claimed him.

Bifur discarded his pride and his spear, dropping to his knees before Dale’s king. “Ye’ve the right of it,” he told Brand in an impassioned and broken voice, Bofur translating each word as it was said. “Justice demands a price. Aye, it does. Ye want a life, take mine. ‘Twas _I_ who—”

“Bifur, nay,” Bofur gasped, hand coming to his arm and attempting to force him to his feet. 

The stunned silence that claimed most of the hall was only broken by Dain’s outraged, “I absolutely forbid it!”

Bifur yanked free of Bofur’s grip, ignoring Dain, his focus intent upon Brand. Bifur’s fist thumped his chest again. _“I_ lost my lass. ‘Twas my failure not to see better to her protecting. _I_ am her adâd, and it was my duty to keep her safe. This is my doing, not hers.” 

Frustration. Bofur no longer translated his words. Bifur dared to take Brand’s hand. “Let my kin take her.” He gestured with his free hand to Bofur. “She’ll return to the Blue Mountains, ne’er to trouble men again. Do not do this, King Brand. Spill my blood if ye must. But not hers. Not my daughter’s.”

OoOoOo

A roaring filled Akhora’s ears, drowning out the rest of Bifur’s words. Her eyes locked upon his kneeling form, unable to tear away. Everything else vanished from her awareness.

Bifur begged. Not for his own life like so many she’d seen before, but for her. No Black Númenórean would ever stoop to begging for another. If asked, she’d have named it folly. She’d have sneered. 

A tightness claimed her chest. She could not sneer at this. This was no shameful, base thing. This was love in its purest form. Even she, jaded and cynical, recognized it. 

Recognized and responded. _Adâd._ Akhora felt herself shatter into a million small and brittle shards. He offered himself up in the place of a woman who could never deserve it. 

Each painstakingly erected illusion, every lie she’d concocted to ward off the guilt of too many actions, they turned to dust. Her face contorted. She’d known all along that she was a wretched person, but with Bifur kneeling there, stealing away her anger by his willingness to sacrifice himself—for _her_ —she was flooded with an awareness of just how vile she was. Her soul was not stained, it was tattered and soaked in blood. 

Her life flashed before her eyes, piecemeal, replaying in graphic detail the few remembered, joyous moments in Bifur’s care…and all the blood and darkness that had ruled her life since she’d been torn from him. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. 

_He has no idea,_ she thought dully. He couldn’t, not and offer to take her penalty upon himself. 

A new torment arose to plague her, and Akhora cursed the Valar. Not enough to rob her of all as a child and thrust her into the pit of darkness. No, they had to drag her back out to display before the only people who’d ever mattered. Bifur and Bofur. Nori.

_How could You?_ Sauron was right. Eru could not be good. For how could He do this to Bifur? Perhaps Akhora deserved to have even the last crumbs that brought her solace torn from her, but Bifur didn’t. Better if he’d been left to believe his daughter dead…and innocent.

Akhora began to shake. She suddenly and fiercely _did not_ want Bifur to discover the full scope of what she’d become, never wanted him to see her for a monster. Her fury at the Valar and Eru soared to new heights. They had reunited her with her family as she’d prayed eighty years past, but it was too late. They had to know it. She certainly did. 

Capricious, she’d once heard a Hand label the Valar. She believed in full now. 

But her fury mattered not a whit to the cursed ones who’d brought this about. She closed her eyes tight, anger deflating, only to be replaced by a despair so encompassing as to swallow the world. 

So this was her punishment. 

It was bitter indeed.

OoOoOo

Bofur bit down upon his tongue until he tasted blood, refusing his objections further voice. Appalled, he was, and though every inch of him rose up in denial, he’d not refuse Bifur this chance to plead for Saldís.

A short glance over one shoulder revealed her to be as pasty white as one o’ Bombur’s lumps of pie dough, and her eyes… If’n a dwarf had doubts about whether pieces of Saldís remained in that cold and violent female, they were laid to rest at the expression on her face. Her steel composure was gone, leaving her face carved in lines of anguish. 

One wholly given to the Dark Lord would spit on Bifur’s actions. Saldís was falling apart if he was any judge. He dared inched closer and took hold of her elbow—the lass swayed as if a stiff wind would topple her. So distraught was she, Saldís never seemed to realize he was there.

His arm wound about her and drew her to his side. “We’re here, lass,” he whispered. “We’ll not let anything happen to you.”

The face that turned to him was stricken, so etched in pain he felt he’d not only gutted her with his mattock but twisted it deeper. By Mahal’s lifted hammer, ‘twas enough to make a dwarf bawl like a babe.

Bofur’s throat convulsed. He said no words but urged Saldís closer, and wonder of wonders, she did not argue his possession of her. A kiss to her temple elicited a shudder, and his grip tightened still further. By the Valar, he wanted the man who’d stolen her, for he felt he could wring the life from the cretin’s neck with his bare hands. 

Bofur forced his attention back to his cousin. If Bifur’s entreaty produced fruit, Bofur would be doing as he asked. He’d be taking Saldís to Thorin’s Hall and her grandparents. Aye, and making sure their lass was put back together again. 

He never wished to see that expression upon her face again.

OoOoOo

Bifur’s grip upon Brand’s hand didn’t loosen, nor did his eyes stray from the King of Dale’s as he silently pleaded. He’d beggar his pride and not think twice.

“No,” a new voice intruded, one feminine and lifeless. 

_Saldís._ Chills took him. Slowly, he turned to face her. Bloodless, her lips, and framed by a pinched face. Bofur had one arm about her, and to his surprise, she did not object. Truth be told, it looked as if without Bofur’s support, she might not have kept her feet. 

“Leave him be,” she whispered, her attention fixed upon Brand. “If there is any goodness in this cursed world, it’s in him.” For a breath, those gray eyes burned into Bifur’s with an intensity that stole his breath. _My lassie._ He saw her. Not Akhora but his Saldís. Then her attention returned to Brand, her gaze cutting away and leaving him bleeding. 

_Nay._ He was not certain what he’d seen in that exchange, but it sent deeper tendrils of ice through his belly. 

“You’re right,” she said simply. “I’m dangerous.” Her head tilted to one side. “Every Weapon is. You want to know what is coming, King Brand? Death. I am but one of thousands of children bred and trained into an army such as Middle Earth has never seen. None were coddled. Fail a test, and the boy-child met his end on an altar to the Darkness.” A bitter smile curled her lips, one that lifted the hairs upon Bifur’s neck, it was so full of futility. “The girl-children were consigned to life as broodmares in the Breeders’ Den. The survivors are those who refused to die and refused to be bred, who killed any in their way to win one more day in the sun.”

Bifur blanched, and mutters filled the room. His gaze raced to Lady Dís and found her staring at Saldís with such intensity he doubted she saw anything else. Nori erupted into such coarse language Dori would have smacked him—well, mayhap not under these circumstances—and Bofur’s head was turned away, tears glistening on his cheeks. 

Saldís’s face closed down, her stance straightened, and her eyes swept the room once. _“That_ is what you face.” A twist of the lips. “Along with orcs, wargs, Haradrim, and the Varaig. When the war will begin, only the Dark Lord knows. Prepare, King Brand. But don’t hope for success.” A defeated note, “Against that one, there is none.”

By the end of her recital, Bifur felt as if his innards had been flayed. Each limb felt thrice its weight as he regained his feet. “She’s suffered enough,” he said to Brand, grateful when Bofur translated once more. 

But his Saldís was not done. “I offer you a deal.” 

“Nay.” Bifur whirled to find her addressing Brand once more. 

She did not so much as glance at him. “I’ll go meekly to the slaughter like a good lamb, but you leave Bifur be.” A hardness entered those familiar gray eyes as they changed direction. _“Both_ of you.” 

“You’re in no position to barter, traitor,” Dain growled, both fists pounding upon his arm rests before he jumped to his feet. At his side, Dís rose slowly, the lady’s face impassive.

“Am I not?” Another horrible smile graced his lassie’s face. “Death no longer holds any fear for me. What more can Eru do to me than what He’s already allowed? Shall we see how much damage I can do before you can stop me, dwarf?”

OoOoOo

Dís had heard enough—seen enough—to make up her mind. “Hold,” she commanded in a ringing voice. Dís rose to her feet and strode from the dais. In a cool voice, “Sit down, Dain.”

Dain scowled at her. “Cousin—”

“I don’t wish to hear you, Dain.” She halted, spearing him with a deadly glare. Old anger flared as the burden of her lineage settled upon her shoulders like an anvil. Dain had been a good, solid lord to the dwarves of the Iron Hills, but the weight of a crown had proved too much for him. He took offense at any slight, jealous of his elevated position. That jealousy was causing serious lapses in judgment. She only hoped time would temper his insecurity, drawing out the king she knew he could be.

“Need I remind you that I am king?” Dain asked, eyes narrowing. 

Her own temper fired. Did he truly believe she needed a reminder that her brothers and sons were dead? “By a cruel twist of fate, aye, you are,” she snapped. “You have had my support from the day you ascended to the throne, and well you know that. But hear me, Dain. Cross me in this, and by all the Valar, I will take another mate, bear a son, and see you deposed. You have made a muck of this entire matter, and I am most displeased.”

“You would…” he whispered, shock written upon his face. “’Tis unnatural.”

Aye, so it was. A dwarf had one partner, and that for life. The mere notion of taking another to her bed filled her with revulsion, but she was not a Durin for nothing. She leaned towards Dain, hands bunched in her velvet skirts. “Aye. But should it become necessary to safeguard our people, I’ll see it done. Don’t make it necessary, Cousin.” A pause. “And do not ever besmirch my brother or his decrees before our people again. Kindly remember who it was that paid the price to reclaim the kingdom you now rule.”

He gaped like a fish discarded upon the shore. 

Dís was confident she’d made her point. 

Satisfied that he would not interfere, Dís joined King Brand, her mind churning. After this fiasco, she little trusted Dain not to lash out at Bifur should the opportunity arise, and Dain would provoke the toymaker until it did. She knew her cousin. His ability to hold a grudge was unmatched by any. What had Bifur been thinking to denounce and attack Dain so publicly? 

Foolish question. He’d responded to the threat to his daughter. Would she have done any less had it been her sweet Kíli? “King Brand,” she murmured, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the man. 

“Princess.” Brown eyes descended to her. “If you’ve a way to navigate this mess, I’d dearly love to hear it.”

A short, assessing look. “I have an answer. Will you trust in my honor to see to it she is never a danger to you and yours again?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I am not thrilled with the idea of setting her free. She is dangerous, Dís.”

“Aye, she is,” she said. “But I mean to see her restored to my people. She is ours.” A considering look at him. “Too, there is the possibility we can learn of our enemy from her.” 

Brand’s brow hitched upwards. “Dís—”

“Oh, I know what you would say, that it is a slim chance, but watch her, Brand. She said not a word until Bifur was threatened. Bifur is the key to our Saldís.” Her lips compressed. “Even if it weren’t so, we don’t give up our own easily, we Durin’s folk. I will yield nothing to the Dark Lord, certainly not one of our children. He’s stolen enough from me.” 

She faced Saldís, eyes sliding back to Brand. “Your nobles and advisers are not going to be overly fond of my decision.”

“Nor your own,” he said dryly. 

Dís’s lips quirked. “Ah, but I am of the direct line of Durin. That carries more weight than a crown. We of the Khazâd are a possessive lot. Most will agree with my actions here tonight.”

“Is it still night?” Brand drawled.

By Durin, she liked Dale’s king. With a trace of humor, she corrected, “Early morning, then. Very early morning.” 

With that, she stepped closer to Bifur. Yes, Bifur was the key to Saldís, and Dís had no compunctions about using any means, fair or foul, to safeguard their lost child. She had to ensure Saldís was not set upon escaping them, for she harbored a suspicion the woman would succeed if she put her mind to it. That, Dís couldn’t let happen. 

Careful to keep her face and hands shielded from Saldís, Dís signed in Iglishmêk to Bifur, _*Keep your face under control.*_

The deep lines framing Bifur’s eyes and lips eased a fraction, and a spark of hope lit his eyes. Dís trusted Bifur would heed her. She hoped Bofur and Nori would pick up on her cues and do likewise, for she was about to behave in a manner quite out of character. 

With a syrupy smile, Dís stepped towards Saldís. “Trade your life for Bifur’s?” she asked in mocking tones. Dís had to muffle any sign of her satisfaction as the taller female stiffened noticeably. ‘Twas like pulling the tail of a lion, but Dís was not the daughter of Thrain for naught. 

Stalking forward, she continued in a cool voice, “I fail to see how that would be equitable to us. This insubordinate toymaker lives, and we lose our only window into the actions of our greatest enemy?” She clucked her tongue. “Nay, I think not.”

Oh, how the woman looked ready to commit murder. Dís cackled to herself with glee. Such rage proved the bonds between father and daughter remained tight and true. How the young girl had adored her adâd. Enough that now, decades later, echoes of it remained. 

“What do you want?” Saldís growled, hands fisted within the shackles before her and shoulders bunched. 

Dís spun towards Brand. With lifted brows, she asked, “The enemy will doubtless seek to reacquire or silence our spy, don’t you think?”

Mahal bless him, Brand played along without so much as a bat of an eyelash. “Without question.” A private, droll look came her way as he pivoted towards his advisers, the action hidden from their prisoner. 

“Then it is settled.” Dís returned to Saldís, the dwarrowdam forcing an expression both hostile and determined onto her face. “Since you care for this toymaker, your conduct will decide his fate. Escape us, and he dies.” 

Aye, now Saldís was truly riled. ‘Twas a good thing Nori stood behind the woman, for the ex-thief’s mouth hung slack enough to catch flies.  
The dwarves clustered around Dain fared better. Facing them, she found her cousin’s face as red as a ripe tomato—to be expected given the way she’d abrogated his authority—and his cronies, all but one, watched with arms akimbo and jaws set. ‘Twas the exception to that wall of glowering obstinacy that she addressed. 

“Brunar, we’ll need ponies and provisions. I intend to repair to the Blue Mountains with all haste. Within Thorin’s Halls, our enemy will have a more difficult time silencing our spy.”

“I am not your spy, dwarf,” came a feminine snarl.

“You are in our custody, are you not? You are a spy, yes? I see nothing in error with my words,” Dís said sweetly, again bestowing that sickly smile upon Saldís. Nori grinned. Bofur rubbed the smile from his face, looking away from Saldís. To Brunar, Dís directed, “I believe Bifur will need no chains. He won’t stray far from our prisoner’s side.”

“Aye, my princess,” Brunar said, his thick iron-gray beard brushing his knees as he bowed. “When do ye wish to depart?”

Dís seriously considered that her words might not be far from the truth. If the Dark Lord’s remaining spies had their druthers, there was a very good chance Saldís would not leave Dale alive. “We leave immediately. And we ride hard.”

OoOoOo

Akhora’s eyes squeezed shut. It seemed Eru and the Valar had even barred her from death. No escape from Bifur discovering… Images flashed through her mind, the worst of her deeds replayed in vivid color.

All ashes. Bifur would recoil from her. Bofur’s staunch support would morph into disgust, and Nori would walk away without a backward glance. It was laughable that she, Ib-Akhora, would care, but Bifur’s offer to take her place had changed everything.

She dared not test Lady Dís. She’d let them cut her organs out one at a time if it would protect Adâd. Gladly. She would not let him pay with his life for defending her. _Never._ More, there was every chance Valkthor would strike out at her…family (she used the term gingerly, prodding herself to test its validity). 

Akhora thrust her self-pity from her. She was a Weapon, and no one would touch _her_ dwarves. 

_Over my dead body._

Valkthor would prefer it. Perhaps she could arrange it so that all won: Valkthor would have his victory, turning any attack upon Bifur superfluous; Bifur would have the consolation that his daughter loved him enough to protect him, and he’d never have to know how odious she’d become; and Akhora would win a death more honorable than she deserved. 

_Or is even that too much to ask of You?_ She mentally bared her teeth at the sky. 

But first, she’d remove the most immediate threat to what was hers. Akhora’s gaze lifted to the rafters where a striped feline sat watching. Before any could react, she had one of Nori’s knives in hand. Voices rose in alarm, but Akhora let the weapon fly before any could reach her. Her aim was true, and the cat’s body fell from the rafters.

A hand to her arm drew her attention from the cat’s corpse—Bifur, his grip tight about her uninjured left bicep. Surrounding them, hostile faces glared her way. 

Akhora cared not one whit. Men could go into the pit Melkor had been thrown into, herself included. But as her family bristled at the men pressing in, her rage threatened to slip its leash as it hadn’t since the day of her final Test. 

The knowledge congealed like sour milk in her gut, and she willed the men away. She cared nothing for them, but if anyone put so much as a finger upon Bifur, Bofur, or Nori, she feared who she might turn upon in her berserker rage. Too much had happened. Akhora felt unbalanced in her own mind, and she did not trust her temper. 

“Silence.” Brand’s voice cut through the fray. “I said _silence.”_

A path formed, and Brand and Dís halted with only Bofur blocking them from Akhora. Captain Thristan materialized by his king’s side, his blond head inclined towards the fallen cat. “The feline,” he informed his king. “She slew it.”

Brand’s regard turned speculative. Dís’s face revealed nothing. “Why?” the dwarrowdam asked in clipped tones. 

Akhora’s lip pulled back in a sneer. This female had threatened Bifur. If she thought that would win Akhora’s obedience, the dwarf was—

Adâd faced her, his hands to her shoulders. 

“She threatened you,” Akhora said.

With difficulty, she translated as he said in Khuzdul, “You tell… us?… (unintelligible) cat, Gêdul. The safety of the Khazâd…may?…(unintelligible)…it.”

Nori nudged her side. “Ye could simply explain instead of stealing a dwarf’s blades,” he said, the curl of his lips removing the sting of his words.

Bless Nori. At his teasing tone, the rage receded. 

Akhora licked her lips. Because it was Adâd who asked if of her, she answered Dís. “Do you know nothing of history?” she asked at last, her voice tight. 

“History, lass?” Bofur this time, head cocked to one side. 

Akhora’s gaze slid to his. “The Black Númenóreans have ever used sorcery to enslave animal spies to their will. Cats are their preference, but they can use almost anything.”

Brand straightened where he stood, and Dís’s head whipped around. “Dain.”

“I heard, Cousin,” came the dwarf king’s reply. “I’ll clear the mountain, never fear.”

Men and dwarves organized themselves, and soon, a number departed at a fast clip. Akhora’s eyes slid closed. A low throb pounded away at her right temple, one she suspected was going to grow in magnitude before the night was over. 

“Saldís?” Bifur asked, his large hand coming to her back.

Akhora shied away, chain links clinking at her violent recoil. She could not bear for him to touch her with her deeds weighing so heavily in her mind. 

Nori started to say something, but Bifur’s sharp hand gesture silenced him. All Akhora could do was stare into Bifur’s brown eyes, captured by the intensity there. His lips moved, and Akhora heard the words, but the meaning eluded her. 

“Form ranks.” The tableau broke at King Brand’s loud command. Akhora found herself bracketed by Bifur, Bofur, Nori and… Her breath caught to see yet another familiar face. Dori handed heavy packs to Nori, Bofur and Bifur, and passed a pair of trousers to Akhora—how had he known?—before shouldering his own pack and claiming the other cardinal position. 

The dwarves were in turn surrounded by heavily armed guards of Dale. The two kings and the lady Dís walked to the head of the line and led the entire group of them out. Dain’s deep voice rumbled in displeasure, but whatever it was he argued, Dís would have none of it. 

Did the Duumvirate have any idea the pull Dís had over King Dain? She thought not, and a touch of dark amusement rose within her. The Númenóreans would be in for a surprise should they ever entertain the idea of executing Erebor’s king. He was not the real strength of this people. 

The entourage exited Dale’s palace, and Akhora immediately scanned rooftops and shadows. The glow on the eastern horizon announced dawn’s soon arrival. Akhora’s nerves jangled. If Valkthor remained, he’d strike soon. 

“Don’t be worrying, lass,” Nori said. “We’ll let no harm befall you.”

An unguarded moment, and her face twisted. Bifur touched her arm, tightening his grip when she shifted to shrug him off. Strong hands captured her face and forced her eyes to his. He brought their foreheads together, carefully avoiding the ax within his skull. Dark eyes locked with hers, refusing to let her dismiss the show of affection. Refusing the distance she attempted to maintain between them. 

“Gêdul,” he said, and the name evoked powerful images of the past. Almost, she reached for him, yearning to feel safe and loved if only for a split-second—a ghost of her child self rearing up in the face of her Adâd. 

But it would be a lie. He didn’t know what she was. And when he finally saw Akhora for her true self, that affection would evaporate like water spilled in the southern deserts. Akhora steeled herself. She couldn’t care. If she did, it would slay her when he turned from her. 

And he would. It was inevitable.

OoOoOo

Bifur exchanged a brief glance with Bofur as Saldís’s face closed down. There was no time now to reach her. They would have their work cut out for them on the journey home, that was plain.

She loved him. That, Bifur didn’t doubt. He’d seen it in her bonny gray eyes. 

He’d reach her. He’d see his Saldís restored, and no power on Arda would sway him from his purpose.


	13. When Home Isn't Home

### Chapter 13

_**14 June TA 3018 - Saldís 89  
Thorin’s Hall, The Blue Mountains** _

Bifur sat in the darkness, silent tears tracking down his cheeks as he nursed a stein of ale in one hand. The wooden chair beneath him gave a creak of complaint as he shifted his weight, but he didn’t move away from the diminutive table tucked beside the front door.

Nor the pitcher of more ale sitting upon its top. 

Mahal. He’d had no idea how difficult this would be. He’d gotten his lass home, but the real challenge had only begun. The war for Saldís’s heart and soul remained. 

A scuffling sound, and his front door cracked open. A face peeked around the door, and a pair of light blue eyes quickly found him. “Aye, I thought as much.” Nori let himself in and closed the door behind him. 

Bifur wiped his face with a gruff clearing of the throat. “What are you doing about at this hour?”

“Likely the same as you, _Umral_ (close friend),” Nori said, pivoting a matching chair around and straddling it. “Thinking. Fretting.” He tapped a short pattern upon the back of the chair. “Dori’s been searching scrolls in the library since dawn.”

Bifur’s seat creaked a second time as he leaned back with a sigh, his eyelids drooping. “Valar grant he finds something,” he said. “I want to know about these people who stole my daughter, Nori. I need to find them.” By Mahal, he longed for one of them to vent his fury upon. 

Nori stretched upwards towards a shelf carved into the wall, almost unseating himself, and returned with a mug. Bifur poured him a measure of ale and received a nod of thanks in return. Nori sampled his ale before saying, “Ori would know where to search for the information.”

Bifur grimaced, sympathy rising up for his friend. Dori and Nori both missed their younger brother, but Ori had been adamant that they let him join Balin in reclaiming Khazad-dum without them. Asserting his independence, their Ori. “Aye, he would. Any word?”

“Nothing in years,” Nori said. He waved that off with a deep inhale. “Like as not, restoring Khazad-dum’s library has my brother working all the day long.”

“Happily,” Bifur said.

Nori’s lips parted in a quick grin. “As Bombur in a pastry shop. True enough.” He took another sip of his ale. “Dori recruited the scholars here to his cause. If there is anything to be found about these ‘Black Númenóreans’, they’ll locate it. If not, another trip to Gondor might be in order.”

Bifur grunted. Mayhap that would prove true, but he wanted his family here where they could help watch over his daughter. The long trip from Dale had been miserably tense. Saldís had said not one word, not to Bifur and not to her uncles. Her face had been hard as a lump o’ coal as she scanned their surroundings. 

One would think her unconcerned about aught but the threat of danger lurking in the shadows by her face, but her gray eyes betrayed her. The majority of the time, they’d been blank as a slate, but there had been flashes—aye, brief, but plain to a dwarf paying attention—of inner turmoil. His wee bairn was fluctuating between anguish, fury, denial and what Bifur could only label as hunger. 

‘Twas beyond bearing, seeing her so distraught and locked away within herself, for it told him his Saldís did not trust him not to hurt her. She didn’t trust any of them. 

“It won’t be easy,” Nori said softly, and Bifur’s eyes rushed back to his friend. “I’ve been to some dark places, _Umral._ Saldís has been to worse. We both know that.”

“She won’t speak to me,” Bifur said roughly. “How can I help my lass if she will not utter a word of what was done to her?”

Nori set his mug down with more care than needed. “Bifur,” he began, face set in determined lines. “This will not be fixed soon.”

“Ye think I don’t know that?” Bifur burst in a fierce whisper, eyes fixing upon the bedroom door barring him sight of his daughter. “I won’t give up, Nori.”

“Remember that.”

“Eh?” Bifur faced his friend.

“Don’t give up. Whatever trust she learned from us was torched by them. It’s up to us to teach her there’s more to living than hate ‘n war. Mark my words, we’ll have to convince her there are things like love and kindness in the world.” A comedic twist of the lips. “See that? She’s got me speakin’ like a dam now.”

Bifur snorted softly, appreciating Nori’s attempt at humor. He thought long on his friend’s words, knowing them for truth. In his heart, Bifur girded himself for the struggle ahead. 

_We love you, my Saldís. Your adâd, Ugmil’amad, Ugmil’adad, and your uncles._ If only she would recall it.

OoOoOo

The room was silent and still. No windows. No familiar sultry breezes. Akhora sat upon a bed—hers, she supposed—as the odd little clock perched upon the mantel in the main room ticked away the minutes. Even through her door, she could detect the soft clicks.

Just as she’d heard Bifur’s heavy steps leaving his own chambers hours before followed by Nori’s muffled voice. It seemed none of them slept anymore. 

A week and a half had passed since they’d reached Thorin’s Hall. She’d recognized this place the instant she’d seen it. So many memories were tied up here that her heart had seized upon her first glimpse. This… This had been home. 

She’d scarcely finished dismounting when she was greeted by faces that had been utterly rubbed out by time. Ugmil’amad had snatched her close, sobbing and babbling while Ugmil’adad had wrapped arms around them both. Uncle Banfur had watched with tears upon his wrinkled face, leaning upon his cane. 

She hadn’t had any notion how to react. Panic had clawed at her throat. She’d felt trapped, suffocated by the violent emotions drowning her from both within and without. All she could do was stand there like a statue, frantic to escape. 

But even when alone, the past would not leave her be. From the doll perched upon a chair by the door to the crude, childish drawings upon parchment that hung upon one wall, every inch of the space rang with dusty memories. It was as if time had stopped within these walls, immortalizing the life that once was. Her fingers plucked at the coverlet upon the bed, knowing the embroidery for Dori’s work, and a hollow ache spread through her chest. 

She didn’t belong here. Her skin crawled with the knowledge. 

These dwarves seemed so happy to have their “Saldís” back, but Akhora knew she wasn’t, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. Saldís had atrophied and died, and Akhora was all that was left—a jaded Weapon who had served the Dark Lord for almost the entirety of her life. She knew nothing of their ways with all their touching and smiling. She could no more return their carefree missing girl to them than she could march into Mordor and run her sword through Sauron’s black heart. (Though the image of that was suddenly appealing.)

How long until they learned the truth? Until hope faded from their eyes and left behind only disappointment? Akhora’s throat felt clogged with tears that would never fall—no one survived training in Caeldor if given to such weakling displays. 

She was furious with herself for caring. She was a Weapon, by the Eye, and a Weapon did not suffer such doubts or concerns. 

But sitting in these surroundings, her back pressed to the far wall and bent knees before her, Akhora could not help but envision the life that might have been had Kimilzor never found her…and seethe. 

_Leave,_ she told herself. Staying hurt too much, and it would spare Adâd from learning the ugly truth about what she was. Dís would never let harm befall Bifur. The dwarrowdam’s threat had been a ruse, one that had become apparent during their mad flight across the Misty Mountains. 

The galling part was that Dís’s charade shouldn’t have worked. Akhora knew better than to let sentiment a foothold. Hadn’t Valkthor taught her that? If she’d been herself, Akhora would have spit in Dís’s face when she’d threatened Bifur. 

But Akhora hadn’t been herself. She might never be herself ever again. 

“Fool,” she whispered to the empty room, but instead of scathing, the word emerged without life. Yes, she was the grossest of fools, for even now, she could not help herself. She loved Adâd. Her heart—so long dormant and cold—throbbed with the force of affection she held for this dwarven family. 

Even if she did doubt them. Even if she knew they could never love one such as herself.

For the time being, Lady Dís remained within Thorin’s Hall, but Akhora had discovered it was not the princess who ruled here. No, that privilege and duty belonged to Lord Dwalin, a fact Akhora had discovered when brought before him for judgment the day of her arrival. 

Akhora had been grudgingly impressed with the lord of Thorin’s Hall. Unlike Dain, Dwalin was short on words. What he said, he meant, and the muscular, balding dwarf looked able to back up his will without weapons or guards. His meaty fists were sufficient to the task. 

He’d given Akhora a searching look, bushy eyebrows low. She’d expected to be tossed into a dungeon despite this dwarf’s friendship with Bifur, but instead, he’d simply grunted, “You stay within these Halls. No venturing outside without my approval.”

By that time chafing to get away from the press of dwarves grating upon her emotions, she’d said, “They will come. The Black Númenóreans do not tolerate traitors. You’d do better to cast me out.” A strangled sound had escaped Bifur at her words, but she’d kept her eyes trained on Dwalin.

The contrary lord had all but purred at the idea. “Good,” Dwalin had said, cracking his knuckles. “Save me from having to hunt them down.”

“Hunt them down?” she’d echoed, her thoughts startled from their agitated circling. Was the dwarf daft? One did not hunt the Black Númenóreans. The wise soul avoided them at all costs.

The smile that curled Dwalin’s lips could only be described as predatory. “No one takes our young and escapes reprisal. No one.”

_Our_ young. Even now, his words reverberated through her, tearing at her innards like vicious thorns. Our young. He, too, thought of her as theirs.

Akhora’s fingers fisted in her hair. She couldn’t stay here. Each day spent within these mountains threatened her more than a legion of armed Swan Knights. Each minute chipped away at her resolve to win free. And she had to, no matter her weakling emotions. Valkthor had not yet made an appearance—good indication he’d returned to Caeldor for reinforcements. He would return, and when he did, he’d have a team of Arcanists at his beck and call. 

Akhora had to leave and do so with a trail for him to follow, at least until she’s lured him far enough from here to make it unlikely he’d return to the Blue Mountains for vengeance. 

_Adâd._ Words of anguish beat against her lips each time he gazed her way, the pressure behind them growing as the past returned in greater clarity. Despite every resolve, her throat clogged still more. She stared at the walls of her bedroom…and despaired.

_Curse You,_ she directed towards Eru. To be surrounded with what she could not have… 

Perhaps it was what she deserved.

OoOoOo

Bifur leaned against the door-jam long after Nori had departed, mind churning as he searched for ways to reach his daughter. She said little, watching her family as if expecting them to turn upon her. It would not happen, but how to convince her?

 _Speak with me, Saldís._ It was too soon, he knew, but her silence was hard to bear. Worse was the stony expression she turned upon them any time she was addressed. 

_Patience,_ he counseled himself. He had time now that she was safe within these halls. None of those who’d taken her could reach her here, much as he wished they would try. 

A rustling sound, and a face he’d hoped to see appeared opposite him. Though he’d not clapped eyes upon the lad in decades, he recognized him at once, and Bifur’s mind instantly returned to their last talk decades past upon the steps of Erebor. To Bifur’s knowledge, it had been the only time Finnin had made the journey to the Lonely Mountain to view for himself what his friend, Fíli’s, blood had purchased. 

_Boots scraped as they approached him on the battlement. Bifur’s gaze never left the twinkling lights of Dale from where he stood with elbows propped up on the stone balustrade. His blade idly whittled away at the bit of wood in his hands. In darkness, he was, and he needed no light to carve the wee pony a dwarrowdam had requested of him for her daughter._

_A stocky body leaned against the banister beside him with a muted clink of metal upon stone. The dwarf joining him fair bristled with weapons._

_“Ye should be resting, lad,” Bifur said, his thumb smoothing along the pony’s mane to assess his progress. With a grunt, he set blade tip to work once more, adding detail to the pony’s crowning glory._

_Finnin did not bother responding. Stubborn enough to rival himself, Bifur thought._

_“She’s likely wed by now,” Finnin said abruptly. “A mother.”_

_Aye, Bifur thought with a pang of sorrow. So much of his lassie’s life, he’d missed. If she yet lived. Grandchildren… He envisioned them for a moment, a fanciful thought for sure. Little boys and girls with their dam’s black hair and lively gray eyes._

_“They’ll pay.”_

_Bifur eyed his companion at the calmly stated words. The lad’s jaw was set, his right hand smoothing across the surface of the drum he often carried with him._

_“For stealing your daughter. For robbing you of the years you should have had together. I’ll not forget it. If it takes my life, I’ll make them pay for wronging our people.”_

_Bifur chose his words slowly. “Saldís is my daughter,” he said, watching the younger dwarf closely. “But I’m not wanting you to throw away your own life in search of her. None of this is your fault.”_

_Finnin nodded readily enough, but the obstinate lift of his jaw said he’d not be swayed by Bifur’s words._

_“Finnin, ye have a number of dwarrowmaids who’d be receptive to your overtures if ye’d just—”_

_Finnin snorted, a bit of a grin parting his bushy beard. “I did not know you’d adopted me, Amâd.”_

_Bifur elbowed the lad hard enough to unbalance him. Finnin snorted once more, catching himself. “Enough of that,” Bifur grumbled._

_“Turith is a fine looking maid, true enough,” Finnin said with a shrug of the shoulders. Intent, half-masted eyes turned to him. “But I do not believe I’ll be marrying.” A short shake of his blond head. “I’d be bored past bearing before the first year was out.”_

_Bifur’s frown deepened, and his attention returned to Dale and the feel of the wooden horse between his fingers. ‘Twas the truth, Saldís’s disappearance had altered Finnin’s life in ways none had anticipated. Guilt and shame had driven the dwarf to removing his warrior’s braids, declaring he’d not plait his beard again until he’d fixed his error._

_He blamed himself for Fíli, too, Bifur suspected. The lad had said as much, wondering aloud if his ax might not have seen their two princes through the battle that had claimed them._

_Finnin had always loved weapons-play. Much like Dwalin, he was, in that regard. But after the two tragedies, Finnin had thrown himself into his craft with a single-minded determination remarkable even for a dwarf. He was never unarmed, and he charged into danger in an instant if he believed he was protecting one who needed it._

_Finnin’s lips curled, the lad’s gaze like his own directed upon the dark vista of the plains and Dale’s glittering outline. “Don’t bother dissuading me. My course is set.”_

_Bifur snorted with reluctant humor. “Like a mule, you are.”_

_The younger dwarf’s smirk deepened. The two sat in silence, each lost to his own thoughts until the sun rose._

That night had never left him. The lad’s quiet companionship had been a gift Bifur had never forgotten. 

“Finnin,” Bifur greeted. The blond dwarf had matured into a full warrior in his absence. A steely look dominated his features, turning his blue eyes a glittering shade even in the low lantern light illuminating the hallway outside Bifur’s front door. 

Like tempered steel, the lad had been hardened by the passing years. _Och, my Saldís, ye have no idea what your loss meant to us._ She still did not comprehend. 

“She is back,” Finnin said with no preliminaries.

“Aye, that she is,” Bifur murmured, eyes alighting upon his daughter’s closed door. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What they left o’ my sweet lass.”

Finnin’s nostrils flared and thick arms folded before a muscular chest. By his unplaited beard, it was clear the lad had not moved from his stance in the long years they’d been apart. Would Finnin now allow himself braids with Saldís found?

“Tell me, Bifur,” Finnin said, his eyes also finding Saldís’s door. “Who took her. What happened to her. How it is she lives. I need to hear it all.” Then before Bifur had a chance to collect his thoughts, “She’s not asleep?”

“Nay,” Bifur sighed. 

“Does she not feel safe?” Finnin asked with a growing anger, a fierce frown turning his visage thunderous. ‘Twas clear to Bifur the lad believed someone in their halls had slighted Bifur’s daughter. 

Bifur almost laughed at the idea. He doubted Saldís would care what any said of her minus himself and mayhap Bofur, Nori, Dori, and her grandparents. “Nay, Finnin. ‘Tis not like you’re thinking.” The back of Bifur’s head thumped against the door sill. “She’s a Weapon,” he said, his heart paining him at that truth. Never had he wished such a life for his little daughter. “Like as not, a better warrior than most here.”

Finnin’s brows shot upwards, and his lips pursed in a silent whistle. “What, then?”

Bifur’s eyes returned to her door and narrowed there as if he could peel back wood, paint and flesh to see the inner workings of his Saldís’s mind. _Akhora,_ a part of him corrected, but on this, Bifur was adamant. To name her by that name was to concede his lass was no more. That, he refused to do. She might be damaged and hurting, aye, but she was his Saldís. 

Though knowing her stubborn nature, it might well take a drawn-out campaign—one of loving words, hugs and kindness—to get her to admit as much. Bifur would not tolerate failure, nor would Banfur, Balfur, Bofur, Nori, Dori… Well, too many dwarves to count. They’d endured years of grief. None of them would permit defeat now that they had her back in the flesh. 

Finnin frowned down at his boots, his chin vanishing within the curly mass of his golden beard. Then, those blue eyes lifted to him again. “Bifur, I know I have no right to ask it. I’m not kin. But I need to know.”

After a brief hesitation, Bifur clapped Finnin on the arm and urged him out the door, closing it behind them. Saldís had made no attempt to flee no matter how loudly Bifur’s gut clamored that she considered it. He’d have to leave her alone at some point, but—Mahal help him—‘twas difficult to do. 

Dori materialized with no warning. “I’ll watch,” he said, a chair tucked under one arm and knitting needles in the opposite hand. 

Finnin looked nonplussed, but Bifur clasped Dori’s shoulder and shook it once. “Ye have my gratitude.”

“Pish-posh,” Dori said with a sniff, setting the chair beside the door. “You’re family, the both of you.” Sitting, his friend stabbed a thick finger in his direction. “You need sleep. Nori, too. I expect you to take to your bed as soon as you return or I’ll do the same to you as I did to him.”

Bifur eyed the fussy dwarf carefully. “What did you do to him?”

A benign smile beamed up at him as Dori’s needles started clacking. “I dosed his ale with sleeping powder.”

Bifur coughed into his fist. “Nay, no need o’ that. I’ll seek my bed as soon as I return.” Or hide from the determined dwarf. Dori on a mission was not one to underestimate. 

“Good.”

OoOoOo

Bifur led Finnin out the main gates into the cool night air. Both claimed seats upon the grand stone staircase chiseled into the mountain. A sight it was, descending from Thorin’s Hall to Frerin’s Court below. From their vantage point, Bifur could just make out the statue of Thorin that had been erected three decades back, the statue standing tall in the center of the square.

He wondered what Thorin would have made of that. Or recent events. 

Finnin’s gaze slid his way through the corner of his eyes. “Why here?”

Bifur dug his whittling knife and a hunk of wood from his trouser pocket. The familiar rasp as he set to work eased his mind. His project, with a bit o’ luck, would help lure more of Saldís to the surface. A flute. 

How she’d loved hers. From the first moment Bofur had presented it to her, its awkward notes had trilled incessantly through their home. ‘Twas the truth, Bifur had considered stuffing wax in his ears those first few weeks. 

“Privacy,” he said at last. 

Finnin turned significantly towards the guards stationed before the thick iron gates only a handful of yards behind them. 

Bifur grunted. “Privacy from my daughter’s ears,” he clarified. “I mean to win my Saldís back, and I’m hoping to recruit you to my cause.”

Finnin propped elbows upon his knees, arms dangling. “Win her back? The Saldís I remember would jump through fire for you. What happened?”

Bifur took a deep breath and told the blond everything, from Nori’s startling discovery to the few facts they knew about the mysterious Black Númenóreans. All they had surmised, and all they feared. 

Finnin listened intently, forehead creased as he pulled out a dagger and began to sharpen it. ‘Twas a common enough task, but somehow in Finnin’s hands, it turned threatening. It boded ill for any of Saldís’s blood kin should they dare to once more enter Longbeard lands.

By Durin, Bifur hoped they tried. 

“She believes they will come for her?” Finnin asked at one point.

Bifur grunted again. “Aye. She is ever watchful. Quick to react to sudden sounds or movement.”

Finnin swept the surroundings with a penetrating look. Seeking out unfriendly eyes, no doubt, Bifur thought. Aye, and eager to find them. Much like himself. 

“That explains Lord Dwalin’s orders to exterminate the vermin within the mountain,” Finnin said.

“Aye,” Bifur said. He cocked his head to one side, studying the younger dwarf. “What has you worried?” 

Finnin sheathed his weapon with finality. “Finnur. You don’t know him, Bifur. He’s… He’s unique,” Finnin finally settled upon with a half smile. 

“Unique?” That was a mite ambiguous.

A larger grin. “You’ll know what I mean when you meet him again. He’s always inventing things.” The smile faded. “He’s strong, and he’s a skilled warrior. Point him at a band of orcs, and he’ll charge in without fear.”

“Have a touch of Firebeard blood in your family, do you?”

Finnin laughed. “Generations back, and it shows in us both, I’ll grant.” More serious, “But he trusts. Finnur won’t see the changed woman you describe. He’ll see his friend and nothing else.”

Bifur sighed. “If you’re asking me to keep her from him—”

“Nay,” Finnin said forcefully. His lips flattened. “Nay,” he said in a softer tone. He pointed the hilt of his dagger at Bifur. “You claim she won’t lift a hand to a dwarf. I’ll trust you on that. But she could manipulate him easily. Finnur sees the world in stark colors. There are no shades of gray. One is either good or bad, and Finnur’s long-lost friend is good.”

Bifur blew wood dust from the flute and inspected his progress. He’d not rush this. It must be perfect. A gift born of his love and a link to their past. He envisioned what it would look like, a symbol to unify them together. Two, mayhap three months time and it would be ready, he judged. Tucking it away, he said, “Wait before bringing him around,” he said. “Giving Saldís solitude has not helped, so I’ll be taking a new tact come morning.”

“From what you say, she’s been too much alone,” Finnin said softly.

_Aye._ On that Bifur agreed. He’d thought to allow her time to adjust, to come to them of her own accord, but if the months on the road had not convinced her of her family’s intentions, more time would like as not fail as well. 

So. Starting the next day, he’d be doing the opposite.

And praying to Mahal and Eru that her refusal to lift a hand to a dwarf would survive the onslaught of affection she was about to receive.


	14. The Infuriating Stubbornness of Dwarves

### Chapter 14

The tenor of her life changed again.

With no warning, Bifur began cajoling Akhora from her bed chamber each morning. No matter her silence or hostility, Bifur dragged her into the midst of their family’s lives, physically pulling her along with him as he went about his day. And if not he, then the others. She spoke not a word, but the lot of them chattered at her as if her silence was eloquence and their happiness was reciprocated. 

Her family smothered her with affection: her adâd, Ugmil’amad, Ugmil’adad, Dori, Nori, and Bofur. Akhora longed to respond—by her soul, she yearned to reach out and grasp what they offered—but she couldn’t. She didn’t know how. 

The pent-up frustration morphed into an anger that climbed each day. She raged at herself. At her life and choices. At the wasted years of Bifur’s life. 

_Too late._ All she hungered for was being offered up by these dwarves freely, and it was far, far too late. The cold awareness served only to fuel her fury until she struggled to hold it inside. She felt like a wineskin ready to burst, only instead of a grape’s nectar, she would unleash death and pain. Her fingernails gouged crescent-shaped wounds in her palms each hour of each day, and her pulse took to pounding within her temple, the constant percussion an ever-present companion that only served to rile her further. 

_Don’t lose control._ She repeated it to herself every time the strain grew too much and acidic, hateful words threatened to spew forth from her lips. Grim determination alone kept her contained, aided by the memory of what she’d done the last time she’d lost control. The thought of unleashing that same berserker rage upon Adâd…Ugmil’amad… It robbed her of sleep.

She had to convince these dwarves to let her go. For their own sakes. For hers.

Yet as days passed, the words refused to come. Some sick part of herself would not utter them. It rebelled, unwilling to be parted from Adâd no matter how imbecilic her actions were. _You put him in peril,_ she snarled at herself. _Do you not remember what happens when you lose control?_ Better if she go. 

Yet, the tempest stormed on, and she remained mute.

Such was her turmoil weeks later when she found herself being lugged along behind Dori by one wrist. Through looming, mirror-lit hallways and across narrow stone bridges, they walked, with Akhora hauled along in Dori’s wake like a recalcitrant child. 

She scowled at her surroundings. Though an impressive feat of construction, buried within the Blue Mountains as it was, her skin and lungs insisted she traversed nothing more than a glorified cave. The bright sunlight channeled through the settlement by its countless mirrors was in no way sufficient replacement for the direct kiss of warm sunlight, and day by day, her thirst for it grew until it gnawed at her awareness. 

It was a mocking reminder of just how wrong everything was. How ill she fit here.

Dori had insisted she accompany him as he sought out fabrics to construct clothes for her, as if there was something amiss with what she wore. She wistfully remembered the last shirt he’d made for her and her devastation at its loss, but she _did not_ need clothes. Especially nonsensical sorts with embroidery and lace. She was no prissy Gondorian miss, and she refused to dress like one. Akhora would rather suffer hot brands to the feet than consent to frills and ruffles. 

“The clothes I have are adequate,” she finally growled, her voice rusty from lack of use. If she’d had her druthers, she’d have remained mute, but she felt forced into voice by Dori’s obstinate refusal to take a none-too-subtle hint. She pulled against Dori’s big-handed grasp when they reached the Halls of Commerce. Her uncle paid her no mind, arrowing towards the fabric sellers with obvious satisfaction. 

By the Eye… She almost tripped over her own feet when she saw his destination. The fabrics Dori headed for were patterned with _daisies._

“She speaks. Ye hear that Dori? ‘Tis a miracle. Her voice has returned,” Nori piped up from behind her. 

When had Nori arrived? Her temper assumed a sharper edge. _Pay attention._

A glare over her shoulder found Nori waving a hand beneath his nose. “You’ve one outfit, lass, and it’s rank and falling apart.” He wrinkled his nose, his pale eyes dancing. 

She scowled in irritation. She’d come to loathe teasing. Were these dwarves never serious? “I don’t wear skirts,” she growled, again contesting Dori’s hold. Dwarves, however, were much stronger than men. Though he was careful not to harm her, Dori refused to let loose, and Akhora in turn refused to lift a hand to him. A stalemate.

“You _didn’t_ wear skirts,” Dori corrected happily. “But you’re home now.”

“I can’t fight in a skirt,” she objected between clenched teeth.

Dori pasted an innocent expression upon his face, but Akhora read his amusement nonetheless. “Why would you need to fight?” he asked reasonably.

“You’ve done enough o’ that,” Nori agreed in a grumble. 

She growled audibly, earning a sole, lifted brow from Nori. The auburn-haired dwarf folded arms before his chest. By the Eye, dwarves were infuriating. 

She resorted to grabbing Dori by his tunic and pulling him close. “No skirts,” she said. 

Dori smiled sweetly. “No need to be shy. You’ve a nice figure. You’ll be quite the charming sight, never fear.”

At Nori’s hastily swallowed chortle, she whirled on him. 

“You might as well admit defeat,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. So smoothly it was done—Dori’s hold vanished, and Nori’s replaced it. By Sauron’s Eye, the lot of them were driving her daft. “Dori’s sense of propriety is famous.” A serious nod. “Nay, I’m not teasing this time.” A quirk of the lips. “But we do need to work on that, lass. You need to learn to find humor.”

Humor? Her eyes slit. 

A blunt finger appeared before her nose. “That’s what I’m talking about.” A cluck of the tongue. “Dori won’t be able to rest until he sees you properly attired. No use fighting. Take it from a dwarf who knows.”

She ignored his wry smile and growled. “We’ll see about that.”

Nori’s brows winged upwards, and her uncle tugged upon one of his braids. Leaning close, “You wouldn’t be wanting to place a wager on that, now, would you?”

With a tight-lipped smile, she asked, “How much?”

OoOoOo

Two days later, Akhora stalked down a narrow hallway whose ornate ceiling soared high overhead. Keeping a sharp eye out for foes as she went, she fumingly wondered why she bothered. She was surrounded by foes. Bearded, stubborn, _interfering_ foes that refused to leave her be.

If this was what it was to have family, maybe she’d been better off…

No. That was a lie. Infuriating or not, she never wanted to be without them again. But by Berúthiel’s cursed felines! Her jaw was so sore from the constant clenching of teeth that she wondered if she might have cracked the bone. Akhora had never abased herself by having a childlike tantrum—the Hands would have put a stop to that nonsense with alacrity—but it was tempting now. 

Skirts. She’d been all but forced into _skirts._ She’d woken this day to find her trousers and tunic missing, and threaten though she did, Dori’s voice had come through her bedroom door, cheerfully telling her she could don appropriate attire or remain abed. 

_Infernal dwarf._ She’d had half a mind to stalk out of her room as naked as the day she was born, but even her frustration with Dori and his female clothes could not counter decades of hardened resolve to never let anyone use her body. She didn’t care if it was by touch or sight—her body was _hers_ and she’d slay the male who wished to exploit it. Her sister Weapons might be inured to nudity, but most of them had also betrayed their own selves by giving their bodies to the men to play with. 

Another thing she would never do. She was no Breeder, and she’d defend that with her dying breath. 

So instead, she’d destroyed her bed chamber, smashing furniture in a desperate attempt not to unleash upon her dwarves. Then guilt-ridden from the mess she’d made, she’d cleaned the damage as best she could, dressed in the least offensive of Dori’s offerings—a simple dress of charcoal-gray—and stalked out of the home she shared with Bifur…

…after taking care of the dwarf left behind to watch over her. She felt a twinge of guilt at that, but by the Eye, he’d had it coming.

Akhora barreled down passage after passage, not caring where she wound up, only that she gain an hour’s peace. No dwarves. No questions or suggestions. Her temper was to the boiling point, and one more push might cause true bloodshed.

Akhora slammed the heel of her fist into one wall as she walked. The throb soothed the angry beast roaring in her chest, so she struck out at the stone a second time. 

She’d decided not to broach her desire to leave to anyone, instead opting to escape. Akhora did not know how much more she could take. Thus far, she’d made no headway in planning her getaway—how could she, she thought bitterly, with one of her family ever present?—and her frustration frayed her composure until she longed to bang her head against the nearest wall instead of her fist.

Her steps flagged to a halt. With each day that passed, she risked all—Valkthor venting his wrath upon these dwarves, herself losing control and leaving unrecognizable corpses in her wake. And Bifur. What if he discovered what she most wished hidden from him? 

Akhora rubbed her forehead, lips flattening. Her gaze landed upon the dress she wore, and her fury funneled in that direction. The dress symbolized all she wasn’t and all her family wished her to be, even if it wasn’t some buttercup yellow monstrosity with flowers. It drove home just how alien she was here. Everything was wrong, from the scents and the food to the clamminess that never departed from the air. 

_Enough._ She needed familiar trappings—was, in fact, desperate to feel herself again. By the Darkness, she was going to wrap her hands about the hilt of a weapon this hour. 

And if took robbing a dwarf by knife-point, she would be back in pants and tunic before the sun set.

OoOoOo

Finnin excused himself from among his companions the instant Saldís prowled into view below him. Aye, prowled. It was the only word for it. She seemed unaware of the balcony running the length of the hall above her, and that, he decided, might not have been a bad thing. The lass’s gait fair screamed a threat to any who might cross her.

His eyes at half-mast, he kept pace with her from above, studying the woman she’d become. He’d known she was no longer a child, but clapping eyes upon her drove that home. 

Slender, she was, almost frail-looking when compared to the dwarrowmaids residing in the mountain. Her black hair remained mostly untouched by time, only streaked with silver near her temples, and her tanned face was smooth but for two scars, one beneath her right cheekbone and the other bisecting her right brow. Exotic, he went so far as to label her, with a face bare of facial hair and that widow’s peak. 

None of those were what captured his attention. Nay, it was the predatory nature of her every footstep that boded ill for his fellows. Curiosity flared, and he spared a thought to wish he could see her with blade in hand. A Weapon, Bifur had named her. Finnin wondered what she was capable of. He’d dearly love to match blades with her upon the sparring grounds. 

He dismissed the irrelevant thought with a frown. Where was Bifur? Finnin tapped fingers upon the pommel of the dirk at his hip. Should he intervene? 

With a nod, he decided. He did not know what had Saldís in such a state, but since her family was nowhere to be seen, he determined to step in. He would not fail the Ur family a second time. 

It took but a minute to descend stairs to her level, and he jogged until he once again had her in his sights. _What are you looking for, Dushin-Mizim?_ She hunted, that was plain. 

Before anything could happen—he did not like the look in her gray eyes—he stepped into her path. “Saldís,” he broached carefully, hands kept limp at his sides. “It does my heart good to see you returned to us.”

Gray eyes like winter burned into his without recognition. Likely it was too much to ask that she remember him, but Finnin still grieved. She’d been like a sister to his brother, Finnur. The two had often raced through his dam’s quarters, chortling and getting into all kinds of mischief. 

He was disconcerted to find Saldís now stood three inches taller than himself. Finnin was not the tallest Longbeard, not by far with Dwalin in residence, but he was not used to lifting his chin to look into the eyes of a lass. 

She struck without warning, and Finnin cursed himself roundly when he suddenly found his own dirk held to his throat. Then the last words he’d ever expected emerged from her lips. With a cold smile, she said, “I want your breeches. Now.”

Well. He’d wished a peek at Saldís’s skills. 

As the old adage said, he should have been a bit more careful what he wished for.

OoOoOo

Akhora’s irritation swelled as the blond-haired dwarf’s blue eyes blinked at her, nonplussed. Perhaps, she growled to herself, she should have simply stolen the over-sized war ax from the lout’s back and clobbered him over the head with it.

She pressed the blade closer. “Did you not understand me, dwarf?”

The lazy, lopsided grin he bestowed upon her could only be labeled as cocky. “You’re wanting my breeches?” His grin grew. “Or is it a glimpse of my impressive physique you’re after?”

Akhora stiffened in absolute outrage. _The dwarf dies._ Her grip on the knife tightened.

Whatever it was he read upon her face instantly eradicated all signs of amusement. “A jest, Saldís. I mean no insult.” He forced the blade from his neck with a slow pressure, unmindful of the damage the blade did to the leather swatch across his palm and the skin underneath.

Was that pity in his eyes? Her control slipped as molten rage flooded her veins. The dagger flashed. 

His arm flew upwards and blocked hers. “I’m not your enemy, Dushin-Mizim,” he said in a calming cadence. “Do you not know me?”

Growling, Akhora swung again. This time, his meaty fist captured her wrist, suspending the knife above them. Wet blood smeared across her skin—his—as she struggled to yank free. Akhora cursed, incensed to hear him snort in inexplicable high spirits, and kicked him in the gut. The frustrating dwarf barely reacted. What was the confounded male made of, mithril? 

Against all expectation, he changed tactics. With the infuriating strength of his kind, he forced the knife lower…until she once again held it to his throat. 

The dwarf was deranged. It was the only explanation.

Blue eyes stared into gray, calm and steady as the Tane River as it moseyed along its way to the sea. “Talk to me, Saldís. What is the purpose of this? Why fight me?”

“Akhora,” she snarled. “Enough with the teasing and the refusal to use my name! Did your Mahal forget to fashion brains for you that you dwarves cannot comprehend simple words? Or do you just delight in ignoring other peoples’ druthers? I am not, nor will I ever be, a weakling Gondorian miss who suffers vapors and swoons prettily at sight of a blade.” Her opposite hand clamped about his blond beard and yanked him nearer. “A tunic. Pants. Give me yours, or I am going to use this knife where you’ll feel it most.” 

Akhora felt the vein in her temple resume its throb at the glint of amusement igniting in his blue eyes. “Truthfully, lass, I’m with you. Skirts, you see, they do nothing for me.”

She once more reconsidered his sanity. 

“Can’t imagine trying to fight in one,” he continued with a bland expression. 

The blond gently coaxed his beard and the weapon from her hands. Then sheathing the blade, he unbuckled blade and sheath from his belt and passed the entire ensemble to her without word. Akhora’s hands closed about the leather reflexively. 

With a crook of the finger, he beckoned her after him. His uninjured hand pulled a length of fabric from one pocket, and he wrapped his sliced palm as if such wounds were an everyday occurrence. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep the clothes upon my body, but I’ve no arguments if you wish to pilfer spares from my chest.” Then with abrupt grimness, “It’s the least I owe you.”

What, she wondered, was she to make of that?


	15. Mistakes and Misunderstanding

### Chapter 15

Bifur let the door close at his back, uncertain whether to laugh or weep at the spectacle before him. There in the center of his main room sat his cousin—trussed up, gagged and a mite sheepish-looking. Sure as snow in winter, Bofur’s mouth had landed him in that predicament.

Bofur mumbled incomprehensibly around the gag, and Bifur’s lips twitched. He could not help it, nay he could not. Bofur looked ridiculous. 

Swift steps carried Bifur to his cousin’s side. Bending, he worked upon the knots affixing the gag in place. Four of them, there were, when a single knot would have sufficed. What had his cousin done to bring this on? “Your mouth will land you in deep trouble one day,” he informed him.

Bofur mumbled again, this time the obscured words assuming a defensive tenor.

Bifur snorted, shaking his head. Only his cousin. 

The gag fell free. Bifur tackled the rope pinning his cousin to the chair while Bofur massaged his jaw side to side. After smacking his lips a few times, Bofur informed him, “I was thinking Dwalin has the right of it. She’s not speaking, and her anger climbs by the day. From the sounds of it, she destroyed her bedchamber this morning.”

Bifur stilled at that. He’d suspected something like this might happen.

Bofur continued, “She needed an outlet. I but gave her one.”

Bifur slapped his cousin upside the head. “An outlet?” By Mahal. Just because his Saldís had not raised a hand to any of them did not mean she wouldn’t if pressed hard enough. His daughter was no kitten to be trifled with, hate as he did to admit it. 

Bifur rubbed his temple. He refused to dance about Saldís as if she would turn upon him, and Mahal bless them, his cousin and friends were of the same mind. Nay, his daughter was no kitten, but a wily lioness. Well did they know that. Rile her enough and they might discover just how sharp her claws were. 

_Patience,_ he counseled himself once more. ‘Twas a daily refrain, that. Though kindness had not swayed her to them—yet—it was likely too soon for any progress. What were a handful of weeks measured against eighty years with the foul souls who’d stolen her? He only wished she would unbend enough to share her burdens, not bottle them up so.

“You could have been injured, Bofur,” he said gruffly. One last yank, and Bofur’s bonds fell loose. Bifur watched his cousin shake free of them and rise to his feet. 

“She’s my niece,” Bofur said, as if that was all that needed saying.

By Durin. Bifur grabbed his cousin close, thumping him once upon the back. “Thick-headed fool.”

Bofur returned the hug, then shrugged when Bifur released him. With rare sobriety, he said, “If she caused you harm in her anger, it would destroy her. I’ll not sit idly by and let that happen.”

Bifur grunted with a ghost of a grin. “Sitting is what you were doing, Cousin.”

Bofur threw him a wry look. 

His cousin underestimated his importance, Bifur thought. Though Saldís revealed little of her emotions, Bifur did not doubt her affection for Bofur in the slightest. 

Bofur righted his hat, his demeanor changing. In a bright voice, he said, “Knows her way around a rope, our lass.”

Bifur barked in laughter. “So it seems. What did ye say to set her off?”

Bofur’s eyes sparkled with humor though he plastered an innocent expression upon his face. “I but told the lass how very bonny she looked in her new skirts.”

New…skirts? Bifur groaned, shielding his eyes. 

Dori must have carried out his threat, robbing Bifur’s daughter of the clothes she preferred. He’d be needing to have a chat with Dori, that was certain. If Saldís wanted trousers and tunics, by Durin she’d have them. Bifur cared not what the stuffier citizens of Thorin’s Hall thought of the matter. 

With a sigh, he walked to her doorway and peered into the room. Though she’d tried to bring order to it, the room was a right mess. Bed frame and tables were in ragged pieces and the mattress’s ticking was shredded. Bifur rested his head atop one wrist upon the door jam, disheartened. So much anger inside of her, and he knew not how to help his daughter release it.

Bofur’s hand came to Bifur’s arm. “There was a look in her eye I did not like, Bifur. Humor has not worked. She views kindness with suspicion.”

Aye, ‘twas true, all of it. Their efforts to blanket Saldís in their affection made her only the more skittish. His wee lioness had no inkling how to react, and her frustration turned ever towards anger. She knew no other response. 

Bifur straightened and pressed fingers into the inner corners of his eyes. _Lord Aulë, guide a poor dwarf._ Dropping his hands, he firmed his chin. “How long ago did she depart?”

“Three hours, give or take.”

_Three hours._ A sudden fear. Though he knew it irrational, Bifur could not counter it. He’d lost her for so long. ‘Twas hard to trust fate would not snatch her away again, and with her people after her, it could easily come to pass. 

He raced from his home, heart aching with panic. Such was his haste, he almost ran down a short dwarf with wild red hair and eyebrows. 

“Bifur,” the younger dwarf greeted with a bow at the waist. A series of fat braids brushed the younger dwarf’s knees at the action.

“Aye?” Who was this dw—? 

Mahal. Was this Finnur? Aye, by Durin, Bifur decided. Wearing a massive ax upon his back and a yellow coat that was so riddled with bulging pockets that the dwarf looked twice his size, the face and eyes betrayed him.

A wide grin split the lad’s bushy, braided beard. “Finnin sent me. He found Saldís prowling about our halls alone. He asked me to tell you—he’s taking her to the Halls of War.” 

Bifur exhaled in relief. A scuffling footstep sounded from behind him, and Bofur placed an arm around his shoulders. “You go after your wayward daughter,” Bofur said. “I’ll get started replacing the furniture in her room.”

OoOoOo

Akhora walked beside the blond dwarf in blessedly comfortable (if over-sized) brown suede trousers pinned in place by the leather belt holding her new dagger. It was paired with a dark blue linen tunic embroidered at neck and cuffs with Khuzdul runes. What they said, she could not remember, but the familiarity of the shapes tugged at her.

For the first time in too long, her temper didn't rumbled threateningly. She felt a measure of calm. Her gaze slid sideways. Finnin, as the dwarf had introduced himself, did not bother her with incessant chit-chat, content instead with silence. He reminded her of her adâd in that regard. He spoke when he had something to say. No more, no less. 

Where he led them, he hadn’t said except to sweep her with an assessing gaze as she’d exited his brother’s bedchamber in the new attire and say, “Come. We’ll get you properly outfitted.”

Akhora dared to hope he meant to arm her but could hardly believe it. She’d accosted him and tried to rob him of his clothes. Why would he arm her? 

Dwarves. She’d never understand them.

OoOoOo

Bifur fingered his boar spear, watching the way his Saldís’s gray eyes ignited when Finnin escorted her into the Halls of War. The cavern was the second largest in Thorin’s Hall and the place where every bit of weapons-learning was done. Busy from dawn to dusk, it was, with dwarflings learning the first rudiments from their sires and dams, warriors sparring to hone their skills, and grizzled veterans often sitting upon the sidelines placing bets and gossiping.

 _Mahal._ He should have thought of this himself. Truthfully, he’d not wanted to see this side of his lassie. He’d not wanted to embrace that part of her. 

_You’re a fool,_ he berated himself. Nay, this was not the life he’d wished for his daughter, but there was no turning back the clock. He vowed from this moment on to begin embracing all that she was. Mayhap then she would trust him enough to share her past and pains.

He suspected ‘twas the only way she’d ever truly be saved. Freed from the Black Númenóreans, she might be, but her spirit was as caged now as if she was back with them. He feared for her and the violence simmering beneath that cold and controlled facade. 

Acting upon his new resolve, he intercepted the two, a small smile on his lips for his daughter. “I should have realized,” he murmured, gaze capturing hers. “You’ve the soul of a warrior, my lass. What say you show me what you’ve learned?” He waggled his brows, hefting his spear in demonstration.

Finnin’s face had only just cracked with the beginnings of a grin when Saldís recoiled. Instead of the spark of interest he’d anticipated, Bifur caught but a glimpse of stark devastation before she whirled around and stalked away. She did not run, not quite, but ‘twas a near thing. 

A brief glance between Bifur and Finnin, one of bafflement, and Bifur hurried after his daughter. He halted her with a hand to her arm. She would not look upon him, and that Bifur refused to allow. “Saldís.”

Her head whipped around. Her chin trembled—not so as a passerby would notice, but Bifur was no casual observer. Her eyes… _Mahal._ ‘Twas as if he’d stabbed her in the back, the betrayal was so sharp. What ran through that bonny head of hers, he didn’t know, but he’d be finding out. This, he could not let pass. 

“Home,” he said shortly. He wrapped an arm around her, one she resisted, her spine as stiff as his spear.

OoOoOo

The instant they were once again in the privacy of their own quarters, Bifur lifted his spear onto its brackets upon the wall nearest the door. He’d chewed over the matter the entire way home, but he remained without answers.

Saldís stood in the center of the room, lips bloodless and face tight with strain. “How could you think I’d fight you?” she whispered before he determined what to say.

He took one step towards her, but she jerked away, fury rising within her. Her right hand flew to the dagger he was certain he had Finnin to thank for. Feeling his way, he gingerly broached the topic. “Do you truly believe I’d ever harm you, my Saldís?” 

She all but hissed at him, shocking him to his bones. “Do you think you could, dwarf?” The mocking tone alarmed him as much as the dark expression upon her face. Her lip curled. “You may be stronger, but I guarantee, I’m better.”

Where, he wanted to know, had this come from? “Stop this,” he said. “’Tis not a matter of skill. I’d never raise a hand to hurt you, and well you should know it.”

A flash of vulnerability. The darkness emanating from her retreated a finger’s width. “When sparring, one annihilates her opponent,” she said softly, and Bifur felt the hairs upon his nape stand on end. “There is no quarter given.” Then in a startling shift of mood, she burst, “How could you ask me to fight you?”

She shoved past him and out the door so fast, he had no time to react. He rocked with the blow, mouth slack and heart aching. 

By Mahal. Horror filled him. What she deemed sparring, ‘twas not what he’d meant. She honestly believed he’d put her in such a position? 

Then renewed anger. By all the Valar, he _would_ find the one who’d stolen his daughter. And when he did, he’d kill him. 

Pounding a fist against the wall in frustration, he tried to rein in his own fury. He could not approach his daughter in anger. Then with a growl, he yanked open the door. He had to find Saldís and explain.

OoOoOo

Akhora sat upon the steps marching from Thorin’s Hall to the stone courtyard below. Guards watched her closely at Lord Dwalin’s command. Dwalin had taken one look at her and permitted her this time outside the mountain’s suffocating walls, a fact she might have been grateful for under any other circumstances.

Her chest felt as if bands were compressing around it. If she had yet been capable of tears, she suspected they would have been leaking down her cheeks. 

Adâd had asked her to spar. 

She’d reacted without thought, recoiling instinctively. The idea of lifting a weapon to _Bifur…_

Akhora rubbed palms across her face. Not all spars ended in death, not even among Black Númenóreans. But she’d never picked up her weapon and faced another without mentally viewing him—or her—as her enemy. Her goal had ever been to remove that opponent as fast and as brutally as she could. 

In hindsight, she realized the dwarves must cross swords in an altogether different manner. She laughed bitterly. Of course they would. These dwarves cared for one another. They would defend each other to the death, something no Black Númenórean did of his own volition. 

Her hands dropped to her sides, and she lifted her face to the crisp breeze. Adâd was likely distraught, castigating himself for this. 

_It is time to leave,_ she thought heavily. She’d intended it before, but temptation had wooed her into laxity. Simply put, she hadn’t wanted to leave Adâd’s warmth. Her weakness couldn’t continue.

Akhora hung her head. She’d lashed out at Adâd. Perhaps it was only with her tongue, but how long would it be before she hurt him in a way that couldn’t be fixed? Or, equally frightening, her gentle ugmil’amad? She refused to let that happen. 

She didn’t belong here. She had to vanish. Soon. 

Though she could not—and would not—return to Caeldor, her life was far from over. Akhora did not have it in her to simply give up altogether, so what did that leave? A mercenary’s life? She was ill-suited to much else.

So that was it, then. She’d find some distant corner of Middle Earth and earn her keep with the sword. 

But first, she had to escape.

OoOoOo

__  
**29 August TA 3018  
Erebor**

King Dain listened to Lord Hlein’s revelations with increasing dismay. _Mahal._ Dain’s mind churned as Hlein and his two companions shared all they’d observed while held captive in the enemy lands of Tovennen. 

So. The woman had not lied. 

Dain rubbed his jaw. He’d kept the woman’s words about the so-called “Black Númenóreans” contained, unwilling to trust the claims of one who’d admitted to serving the Dark Lord. Gimli and Gloin, even now making their way to Rivendell as his emissaries, knew nothing about them. He’d deemed it unwise to share Saldís’s wild stories until proof presented itself. 

Proof now stared him in the face. Should he send a raven after Gloin so that the dwarves might share this information with the elves?  
 _Wait,_ he decided. Though Hlein, Gripur and Glúmur had not been blindfolded during their escape, their efforts to elude capture had resulted in such a convoluted path, they could not pinpoint the precise location of the accursed city in which they’d found themselves. The information he had from them was useless until more was learned. With a frown, he determined to glean as much from Hlein’s observations as possible before deciding whether or not to share information of the Black Númenóreans with the outside world.


	16. Breaking

### Chapter 16

_**13 September TA 3018  
Thorin’s Hall** _

Nori did not like what he was detecting. Nay, not one bit. 

If Saldís had been closed off before, she was well nigh an impregnable fortress now. The vulnerability she’d displayed towards her sire, grandparents, and uncles had vanished. She did not speak, and she did not tolerate physical contact of any sort. 

Nori’s fingers rapped against his thigh as he trailed behind her unnoticed. Bifur’s words churned through his mind. That Saldís had a darkness in her, well, Nori could not claim any surprise. ‘Twas all she’d known for far too long. 

For many Longbeards, darkness and evil were known in their most familiar guise: that of the orc. Oh, aye, dwarves knew well that men were capable of horrible acts—the slave trade thriving to the south was proof enough o’ that. Dwarves were capable of equally wretched acts, too, if a dwarf cared to recall it. The Petty Dwarves had once been members of the seven Houses. 

But none except Nori had walked streets in far-off lands and seen altars to the Darkness and the infants sacrificed there. Dori knew nothing of it, but Nori had almost lost his life more than once to the Haradrim and Varaig by stealing away such children and taking them to the land of Agar for safekeeping. 

No Longbeard had ever fallen into Shadow, and therein lay the crux of the matter. They’d never beheld how dark a soul could grow, not as Nori had during his travels in the East. Reaching Saldís would not be easy—he’d warned Bifur as much before—and he feared things were coming to a head. 

Saldís would escape them, mayhap resorting to violence unless something was done to avert the disaster screaming towards them like an out-of-control mining cart. There must be some way to reach her. Not the Akhora person she claimed to be, but Saldís. 

Finnin’s attempt to create common ground by taking her to the Halls of War had been well meant, but Nori deemed the lad wrong. ‘Twas not Akhora they needed to reach. 

Nori smoothed one finger across a braided eyebrow. He hoped one of the others had an epiphany soon, for Nori was out of ideas.

OoOoOo

Bifur watched his daughter with growing dread.

His misstep had jammed a barrier between himself and his Saldís, one he could not tear down no matter what he tried. He was losing her. Bifur could feel it in his bones. When he dared wrap arms around her, he might as well be embracing a hunk of lifeless wood. His touch no longer had the power to reach her, and Bifur felt as frightened by this development as when his daughter had first gone missing. 

_I’ll not let you go, lassie._ He refused to chain her, even knowing she searched for a way to leave them. But what did that leave? 

Bifur’s eyes flicked to his bedchamber door. He’d packed a bag, he had, in readiness should she succeed in slipping out of the mountain. If she thought he’d let her go hying off alone, she was mistaken. 

His progress on the flute accelerated. He cared naught for sleep. He could think of no other way to reach his daughter but this, and he worked upon it with feverish determination. It had to be perfect to the last detail. 

He glanced her way from beneath lowered brows. She had not directly looked upon him since the day of his error. Two weeks. Two full weeks with no real interaction to speak of. Pursing his lips, he returned to his project. 

He no longer attempted to hide what he was doing. She didn’t pay enough attention to care.

OoOoOo

_  
**18 September TA 3018**  
_

Akhora paced. 

As ever, Adâd’s— _No, Bifur’s._ She had to distance herself—gaze was a tangible thing. Her skin prickled. 

The awareness that she was wounding him with her silence and distance was an ever-present ache that only caused her to rage more. Her control was but a tenuous thread, and she was terrified it would not last much longer. 

Something was going to give, and if she unleashed her fury within these halls, she would not survive the aftermath. Desperate to protect Bifur from the loss she knew inevitable, Akhora pulled away, refusing to acknowledge his embraces even as she carefully packed away each memory for when she no longer had Bifur and her family. For the empty years that lay before her. Each precious memory would have to last her for the rest of her days.

She’d made some progress in planning her escape. Thorin’s Hall was an immense place riddled with mine shafts and little-used passages. There had to be another exit beside the main gates, and she would find it. Already, she’d mapped out large patches of the sprawling settlement. 

_And if that fails, I’ll risk the air ducts._ Though too narrow for a dwarf, she might be able to squeeze through them. Perhaps. The idea of getting stuck lodged within their confines was all that had prevented her from trying thus far. 

A sigh from behind preceded the sound of Bifur rising to his feet. Heavy footsteps came her way, his boots rasping upon the floor. Akhora braced herself to resist whatever words he threw at her next. 

A gentle hand prodded her to face him, but Akhora averted her eyes. It hurt too much to look upon him. It made her long for things she could never have. _Do one noble thing in your miserable life and spare him._ She had to protect him from herself and the knowledge of just what she’d become.

Rough, callused fingers brushed her cheek. “My Saldís,” he said. “I know you’re hurting, lass. Try to remember you have many who love you. When you hurt, I do too.” 

_Cursed Valar._ Why had they allowed this? The bands about her chest returned with a vengeance, making each breath an effort. Akhora tried to force the feeling back. 

Something long and slender was pressed into her grasp. Bifur folded her hands about it. “You’ll always be my daughter. Naught could change that.”

His words threatened to weaken her, and she tried not to listen as her gaze descended to the object in her hands. Her belly bottomed out, and her skin pebbled. _No._ Her fingers smoothed across the length. _Not this,_ she thought with desperation. Anything but this. 

The flute was exquisite. The length had been carved to exactly mimic the braid she’d once worn—the braid that had marked her as his daughter and that now faithfully circled his wrist. The wood was stained to ebony, and gray gems sparkled just where beads had adorned her hair. 

The world wavered before her. Instead of their home, she once again stood within the burning town of men. The mutilated bodies of the family, the _children,_ lay at her feet. 

For a split-second, her Akhora-self vanished, leaving a vulnerable Saldís to buckle under the crushing weight of all she had done. A tremor worked its way from her fingertips to her spine. She remembered her last flute, the way she’d pitched it into the fire as all hope had vanished.

She gasped for breath through the vice of blood-guilt tightening around her. Away. She had to get away. _I cannot breathe._

She hurled the flute across the room, choking on a cry. Saldís shoved Bifur from her path with such strength that he toppled over a chair and crashed to the floor. He shouted something, but she could not hear it over the roaring in her ears. 

The door smacked into the adjoining wall as she tore out of their chambers, heart hammering in her chest. Away. Far, far away where none could find her. Where her evil deeds would remain her own. 

She ran right for the gates, her feet taking the most direct route to freedom without direction from her. A number of voices hollered at her as she sprinted into the First Hall. The mountain’s massive doors stood open. _Escape._ With another burst of speed, she flew across the hall.

Bearded, armed bodies blocked her path, their words so much noise. Her Akhora-self reemerged and steeled herself for what she must do. For Bifur. For herself. She drew her dagger.

The first dwarf fell as her leg whipped out and swept his feet from under him. The second, she drove back, blade slicing through his bicep. She dodged another with an agile twist, but then her dagger was wrenched from her grip. 

Saldís danced around a grasping set of arms, weaving until she gained purchase upon the hilt of another dwarf’s weapon and twisted it free. The sword fit her hand like a glove, its heavier weight a long-missed comfort. Without pause, she rammed the hilt hard across the back of his head. 

_Don’t kill them. Don’t kill them._ As rage threatened to steal all thought, she desperately clung to a last shred of sanity. Why did these dwarves not get out of her way? 

She turned the sword upon the rest, swiftly disarming one after another and leaving injured, bleeding dwarves in her wake. _Not dead,_ her Saldís-soul pleaded. She could not endure killing them. 

The mad effort to win free continued. Dwarf numbers swelled with each clash of weapons. 

A voice called out, one that drove the other dwarves into retreat. Dwalin, she realized. She found herself panting in the center of a ring of dwarves, the iron doors of Thorin’s Hall yet open and beckoning her. Only two dwarves now barred her path.

Nori. Dori. 

Her grip tightened about her weapon. “Get out of my way.”  
Dori stood there, tears streaming down his cheeks. Nori held short swords in either hand as he shook his head slowly, no. 

“Don’t you get it?” she spat, detesting the raw desperation leaking into her voice. “I don’t belong here.”

“Aye, you do,” Dori burst, his round face earnest as he blinked away his tears. “We’re your family. How can you say that?”

“You don’t even know me,” she hollered, unable to bottle up her pain any longer. “You have no idea who I am or what I’ve done.”

“So that’s what this is about,” Nori said softly, eyes intent. “We may not know the details,” he added, his voice growing in strength. “But you’re forgetting one important fact, Saldís.”

_Please, Nori, go away._ “What’s that?”

Nori’s gaze never faltered. “We’re dwarves. I’m not dismissing your past. It will come to light whether you wish it or not. But you’re ours. And we yield nothing to yon Deceiver, much less one o’ our own.”

A host of bearded warriors grunted in agreement. 

Spare her from dwarven stubbornness. Her body began to tremble once more. “Let me pass, Nori.”

He rotated his blades. “I’ll not let you go, Saldís.”

“Don’t do this,” she said, her voice now shaking, too. “Nori, just get out of my way. Don’t do this to him. To Bifur.”

He took one step towards her, weapons at the ready. “I’d sooner slit my own throat than harm him. You know this.”

“Then _let me pass,”_ she begged. “He can’t learn. Don’t you see? Let him have his ignorance.”

“He’ll not—”

“I murdered a family,” she shouted. “Children.” The room rang with silence. “I carried _his_ banner and did all that was asked of me. _I_ led troops into Gondor and raided villages. _Me._ I led Corsairs up and down the coastline, pillaging and burning. Do you wish to know how many I captured to be hauled off into slavery? Or how many I handed over to Arcanists for their vile ceremonies?” She ignored the way he flinch. “I am the villain in this story. Curse you, get out of the way and spare him this.”

She’d go through him if she must. Saldís bled inside to contemplate it, but there was nothing she would not do to shield Bifur from the ugly truth. Nori had to see reason. He had to.

That terrible rage threatened to slip from her tight hold. “Nori, I don’t want to hurt you,” she pleaded.

A choking sound came from behind her, and a horrible suspicion leeched all warmth from the air. The rage fled as icy fear stole into heart. Surely Eru could not be so cruel. _Please. Not this._

Gooseflesh pebbled her skin as she slowly turned. _No._ The sword fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor. There stood her adâd, his skin drained of all color. Familiar dark eyes captured hers, so filled with horror it felt like she’d been gutted. 

He’d turn from her now. It was inevitable. 

Saldís wrenched free of his gaze with a low moan, one hand to her belly. She couldn’t endure this. _Flee._ Without hesitation, she threw herself towards the door. That it was Nori and Dori who blocked her path barely registered. She writhed, clawed, and punched to be free, eyes fixed upon the open vista beyond Thorin’s Hall’s towering doors. 

A pained masculine shout, and she was loose and running, but then a blond- and red-headed pair caught her. Hard hands forced her jaw to an angle until dark blue eyes met hers. “No,” the blond growled. “You are not leaving.”

She punched him in the face. 

More voices bellowed. 

Free. She was almost free. For the first time in memory, her sight blurred. Tears. Her throat and chest burned with them. 

Two strong arms encircled her from behind and a silhouette of wild hair, craggy features and an ax head sunk into the brow swam into view. Adâd’s voice sounded in her ear, the words unintelligible but desperate. 

The life drained from her limbs. She could never strike him. Never, not even when enraged. How could she have feared otherwise?

Saldís would have collapsed to the floor but for her adâd’s support. He lowered them to a seat, his grasp changing, tucking her head beneath his chin. Wordless croons rumbled from his chest as he rocked her like she was once more a babe. 

With a wail, Saldís broke down and cried.

OoOoOo

Bifur rested his cheek upon his daughter’s head. By all the Valar. He crooned a lullaby, his heart breaking.

So this was what she’d hidden. This was why she’d refused to share with him or any of their family. _Mahal._ He should have realized. Eighty years, she’d been Sauron’s. Like as not, her past was ripe with terrible deeds. 

Without warning, she turned in his grasp, and he tensed, ready to restrain her if necessary. He would not let her go. Instead, her arms latched around his chest with frantic strength, and deeper, wrenching sobs tore through her. 

“Adâd is here, and I’ll not be leaving you,” he managed around his own tears. 

Nori squatted beside him, the thief’s right cheek puffy and battered. Pale blue eyes met Bifur’s, sadness in their depths. “She wished to hide this from you.”

Aye, he’d caught that. Bifur kissed the crown of her head. He hated that it took this, but he rejoiced that those cursed walls were down, baring his Saldís to them at last. 

Around her cries, she said, “You shouldn’t have heard. Why did you have to listen? I cannot bear…” 

“Nay, my Saldís. Did you think this would change my love for you? It will not happen,” he said roughly. “You’re my daughter.”

Bifur crooned to her and resumed the rocking. Nori seated himself beside them, one hand resting upon Saldís’s back while Dori dug through a healer’s satchel beside his brother, searching for supplies to tend their wounds. Both Nori and Dori showed evidence of Saldís’s fury—each had swollen, bruised skin upon their faces and scratches on the exposed skin of hands, arms, and necks. No doubt Saldís’s hands would need attending to as well. 

_Murdered children._ Every dwarf in the First Hall had heard Saldís confess that crime. His hand fisted in her hair, and his arm held her ever tighter. ‘Twas an evil act, for sure, but his anger was for those who’d shaped and molded his little one. What chance had a child of eight against the Dark Lord and his minions? 

Bifur murmured into his daughter’s ear, a never ceasing stream of assurance. He was there. He was not leaving, and she’d not be alone again. She was not a monster. Her family would stay by her. 

Aye, he held his daughter. 

And swore once more that he’d have his vengeance. One day, he vowed, someone would pay.

OoOoOo

Lady Dís moved among the throngs of dwarves crowded into the First Hall, checking the wounded and ordering them to the infirmary. Dwalin did the same from the opposite end of the hall. Time and again, her gaze strayed to where Bifur held his sobbing daughter. By all the Valar, her throat tightened each time she looked upon them.

“—not her fault,” she overheard Finnur staunchly defend in his characteristically loud voice as she neared another cluster of warriors. Each bore evidence of Saldís’s attempt to flee. Red-headed Finnur’s companions muttered to themselves, plainly disturbed by what they’d seen and heard. 

_As will many be._ Word of this would spread through these Halls like wildfire—and likely to Erebor, Belegost, and the fledgling resettlement at Nogrod as well. Dwarves loved nothing so well as a tale, and their Saldís’s story thus far was a riveting one, even if tragic. 

Dís joined the group and rested one hand upon the passionate young redhead’s arm, stilling his next hot words. By Finnur’s side, his blond-haired brother watched all with one eye at half-mast, the other swelling quite magnificently. His lips were compressed to an angry slash, though his anger seemed to be for his fellow warriors and not the woman who’d struck him. Finnin inclined his head to her, and Dís reciprocated. Finnin would always have a corner of her heart for the friendship he’d had with Fíli.

“I would advise you not to condemn our Saldís out of hand,” Dís said to the group.

“But my lady,” brunette Gani said, hands clamped about his thick, leather belt. “By her own admission, she murdered a child.”

“She was eight when taken. What choice do you think she had?” Finnin interjected in a voice of soft steel. 

Before Gani could argue, Dís lifted one hand. “Look at her, all of you.” Bearded faces turned towards the trio sitting on the floor. “Do you honestly believe the Valar did not have a hand in this? For eighty years, the enemy had her, yet she is capable of remorse.”

Gani rocked upon his heels, and his ever-present shadow, quiet Digur, whistled lowly. 

“She was marked as a child,” Finnin said, his voice tight. “We all thought it strange.” His redheaded brother nodded at his side.

Dís dipped her head the smallest bit in acknowledgment and gratitude. Saldís was not out of the woods yet. They needed the girl restored, and not solely for Bifur’s sake. The Dark Lord grew in power, and Saldís was their best window into what they might expect. 

_Perhaps Eru allowed her to be taken for this very reason._ An unsettling thought, but the events surrounding the woman were remarkable, stretching coincidence to the snapping point. No other child of men had ever been taken in by dwarves. That she was one of the rare Dunedain? Aye. Dís very much suspected a powerful hand at work here. The question became whether Eru and the Valar were done with the girl. 

“Aye,” she said in response to Finnin’s statement. “Endurance.” She turned once more towards Bifur and his daughter, and a measure of foreboding filled her. Valar grant it not herald more challenges ahead for the Ur family.

Gani and the others grunted, the distaste of before replaced with speculation. Dís hoped that the sentiment would grow, spreading along with the tales of Saldís’s confession.

Trusting Finnin and Finnur to head any ugly rumors from this corner, she moved on.

OoOoOo

Many hours later, Bifur tucked the blanket closer to his daughter’s chin, unwilling to move from her bedside. The clock kept him company, ticking from the other room. The rest of the family had been and gone, each silently expressing his or her hope that this would be the turning point.

Bifur’s hand brushed a lock of silver and black hair from Saldís’s face, then traced the scar across her eyebrow. A hard life, she’d had, but that was done now. She was safe, and she was home. He prayed things would be simpler from this point out, but he was cognizant that his daughter was no child to be so quickly soothed from her wounds. By Mahal, let this at least convince her that he was going nowhere.

Bifur sagged in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. He’d rarely felt so tired. ‘Twas no wonder, to his mind, that his Saldís had fallen asleep in his arms. Such had been the force of her cries—and their duration—that he suspected she’d sleep the next day through. 

A creak drew his attention over one shoulder. His sire eased inside the room, an equal measure of exhaustion written upon his face. Without word, he handed Bifur a steaming stein. By the aroma, Bifur put name to it: coffee spiked with rum. 

Bifur accepted it with a short incline of the head, sipping it and sighing at the warmth it bestowed. He toed off his boots and stretched his legs out before him. 

Balfur squeezed his shoulder before claiming the seat closer to the door. Both chairs and bed were of sturdier make than their predecessors, and Bifur spared a brief thought to be grateful once again for his cousin. 

“You should get some sleep, too, son,” Balfur said.

Bifur grunted, taking another sip of the coffee. Mayhap he should, but he wouldn’t be sleeping just yet. 

“Stubborn,” Balfur said.

Bifur’s lips twitched the barest amount.

“Ye get that from your mother.”

The smile grew. “She’d say the opposite.”

“’Course she would,” Balfur said roughly, his voice kept low. “She’s female. Contrary, all of them.” 

Bifur opted not to comment. He was no fool to step into that pit. “Will she stop fighting us, Adâd?” he asked.

Balfur sighed. “Ye don’t ask much of our littling, do you?” At the sharp jerk of Bifur’s head, his sire continued, “Eighty years, Bifur. She has much to learn and more to unlearn. It will not be easy.” As Bifur’s gut knotted, his father’s expression gentled. “But mayhap now she’ll be working with us and not at cross-purposes.”

Aye. Bifur could only hope as much.


	17. The Bargain

### Chapter 17

_**19 September TA 3018 - Saldís 89  
Caeldor, Tovennen** _

Kimilzor stroked the gray and white short-haired feline upon the balustrade before him as Valkthor dismounted from his _emala_ and strode up the stairs to his position. The younger Archanist viewed the bustling activity in the streets with a minute upturn of the eyebrows but little else. 

With narrowed eyes, Kimilzor homed in upon the subtle way Valkthor favored one leg. No team. No Akhora. What had the viper managed to orchestrate? 

Kimilzor was displeased. Without warning, their time of preparation had ended. The Dark Lord had spoken. The Nine rode in search of the One Ring, and the war was about the begin. Anticipation burned in his chest. His moment was at hand. In war, accidents happened. Even to such wily souls as Ar-Tagan.

 _Or myself._ A suspicious glance slid to his son. Kimilzor had hoped Akhora would deal with this problem for him. Alas, it seemed it was not to be. 

“My lord.” Valkthor crossed arms before his chest and bowed. Though he maintained a blank face, Kimilzor detected the underlying excitement vibrating through his offspring’s bones.

“Tell me, Ne-Valkthor,” Kimilzor said, taking perverse enjoyment in rubbing the younger man’s nose in his status. “Where is your team?” More to the point, where were the other Arcanist’s felines? _Removing evidence, Valkthor?_

Valkthor’s chin lifted. “As I warned y—” 

Whatever Valkthor read upon Kimilzor’s face froze the rest of his words in his throat. “Yes?” Kimilzor prodded in a low, sinister purr. The cat’s tail twitched, its ears flicking back towards him. 

Valkthor bowed low. 

“Continue,” Kimilzor said, his tone dismissive.

Valkthor straightened, a tick tugging at the left corner of his mouth. “She turned upon us.”

“Is that so?” he asked, not concealing his doubts.

Valkthor’s spine snapped straight. “I found her in conference with dwarves.”

Kimilzor said nothing, allowing Valkthor’s temper to flare higher as Kimilzor considered Valkthor’s words. Though he was loath to believe it, Valkthor’s voice held a rare note of truth. Could Akhora have nurtured some remnant of affection for the cave-bound people all this while?  


It seemed assigning her to guard the three dwarves had been an error. She’d been useful, by Sauron’s black heart. “You did not answer my question,” Kimilzor said after a pregnant pause. “Where are the others?”

“She killed them.”

Ah, now there he detected lie mixed with truth. _Sloppy._

Valkthor was ambitious and cunning, yes, but he was too rash. Even had the man not set his sights upon Kimilzor’s position, Kimilzor would have strong reservations about seeing Valkthor promoted, especially with the war they’d all anticipated now at hand. The Númenórean army needed shrewd and level heads to win the battles to come. The world waited for them to rule as Sauron’s emissaries. This was not the time for mistakes.

“And Akhora?” he asked in a mild voice as if disinterested. He returned to stroking the feline, his attention drifting over the street below. He dismissed Akhora as a lost asset. Inconvenient, yes, but not insurmountable. Who to replace her with?

“Dead.” _Truth._ “By my hand.” _Not true._

Kimilzor inclined his head in a small nod. “Good.” With no witnesses to spread tales, no word of Akhora’s betrayal would shame House Sangahyando. The team would be written off as an unfortunate loss. For this alone would he spare Valkthor his displeasure for lying to him. 

“Good. The War is upon us,” he informed Valkthor with no warning, infinitely amused at the way his son jerked with surprise. “Tell me what your team learned. Tell me of Dale.”

OoOoOo

__  
**Thorin's Hall, The Blue Mountains**  


Saldís woke in slow stages. Each muscle in her abdomen ached. Beneath her closed lids, her eyes felt scratchy, and her head felt stuffed with wool. 

Saldís. There was no moment of confusion. She remembered all that had transpired, both the humiliating way she’d broken down like a child and her sire’s unwavering support. She felt hollow as if the part of her that she’d named Akhora had been ripped out by the roots. 

_Warg dung._ Saldís could no more excise the violent, hardened part of herself than she could sprout wings and fly. Her anger at the world continued, especially towards men, but it was no longer a fiery tempest threatening to rob her of control. No, it rumbled like a thundercloud who’d done its worst. It crackled and boomed, but it no longer swept through her with gale forces. 

Its diminished power proved insufficient to barricade away the guilt pulsating in her chest like a glowing coal. Life was unfair—she knew that to be true—but now she had to admit she’d done much to contribute to it. 

Her insistence that she was not Saldís was ended. If she’d truly become Akhora in full, the grief congealing in her throat would not exist. She’d have played the adoring daughter to glean valuable secrets from these dwarves and cackled as she’d done so. She’d have betrayed even Adâd. 

It was too easily envisioned. If not for Hlein upsetting her life and Bifur’s return, she would have done as much to any kingdom of men without pause. The knowledge sat like soured milk upon her tongue.

No, she was Saldís. What that meant, she did not know. She had no idea who she was if she was not Akhora, wrath given form and unleashed upon the world of men. 

A low snort followed by the rumble of a snore drew her attention to the weight upon her left forearm. _Adâd._ Her eyes cracked open, gritty and dry. 

Bifur was slumped in a chair, head tilted back. With slack mouth and legs sprawled before him, he was the very image of exhaustion.  
What should she do now? Aghast, she felt tears migrate from throat to eyes, threatening to spill free. By the Eye, she was no weepy miss, and she refused to become one. 

Yet… Bifur had stayed. Against all reason, her adâd stuck to her side. He loved her. The knowledge clogged her throat with such a surge of emotion that she was hard-pressed to keep it contained.

His unwavering support and love made her duty all the harder. She could not remain here. To do so would endanger everyone. Valkthor had by now reported to the Duumvirate. The hunt was about to begin if it had not done so already. _I don’t want to leave,_ a whisper-soft part of herself admitted. Her hand reached out of its own volition. Fingers twined with Bifur’s.

He woke instantly, his fingers trapping hers before she could pull back. Their eyes met, his dark in the low light. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered and found her voice as scratchy as her eyes.

His hand tightened about hers, raw emotion written upon his face. No, her adâd had not recoiled from her crimes. A tear escaped her control, leaking onto her pillow. She’d thought herself incapable of such a display, and she didn’t know whether to celebrate or fear that some shred of humanity remained to her. 

“I still have to leave,” she managed, holding his gaze.

At that, his grip became almost painful. He didn’t budge during his long silence. Finally, he said, “If you go, I go with you.”

The simple declaration propelled her upright upon the bed. The blanket that had been covering her pooled by her hips. “You can’t.”

In that moment, she saw her adâd’s kinship to Uncle Bofur on full display. He smirked, releasing her hand and climbing to his feet. “Should I hide the rope, Gêdul?” 

She tossed him a sour look, one that caused Bifur’s lips to twitch as he dropped onto the bed beside her. Strong arms enveloped her from behind in a gentle hug. 

Their old habit returned to her. She leaned into him, sinking low so that her head rested upon his chest. One hand latched onto the braid in his beard. Knowing this chance to be vulnerable was sure to pass too soon, that she must leave to protect Bifur, she ignored the small voice proclaiming she was an adult and let herself be cuddled. 

A quiet minute passed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. For all she’d done. For what she must still do. 

Oh, but the words were inadequate. She could never be sorry enough. Guilt hung about her neck like a lodestone. She doubted she’d ever be free of it now, and perhaps she deserved it. 

_Not perhaps._ Bloody scenes splashed against her inner mind. She deserved it. And more.

Her gaze locked upon her adâd’s beard, and she absently noted the growing amount of gray in its dark mass. A ghost of worry reared its head. How old was Bifur? He didn’t look old, but then, dwarves rarely did until their last years of life. By the Eye, the thought of him perishing sent shards of ice through her chest. 

Her hand left his beard, and she squeezed him tight. 

“You were but a child, my Saldís,” he said roughly, one hand running through her hair.

Irritation flashed. Her age would little matter to those she’d slain. “Don’t make light of what I’ve done,” she said, tilting her head to throw a glare his way. 

“That, I’m not doing,” he said heavily. Bifur’s chin settled on the crown of her head. “I’ve no doubt you’ve caused much harm. You’ve done evil, my Saldís, but I know it would not have come to pass had you not been stolen.”

Saldís pulled free from his embrace and sat upright. Her hands absently traced the runes Dori had embroidered on her blanket. Bifur was trying to rationalize her actions. Make her better than she was. Though it was tempting to permit it, she wanted no more lies between them. He had to know the truth. 

With a sigh, one hand lifting to graze the earrings in her right ear, she admitted to them both, “I’m responsible for what I’ve done. It was my decision. All of it.” Her eyes drifted down to her lap and the blanket. “I knew it was wrong. What they taught us. What they wanted of us. If it was death I’d faced, I might have had the courage to resist.” 

Meeting Bifur’s gaze once more, she said, “In the beginning, I pretended to be what they wanted. I tried so hard to do no more than wound my opponents. I knew it was dangerous, but I was of the Khazâd.” One hand came to her chest, and her head lifted. “I would not forsake honor.”

A bitter twist of the lips, and she looked away.

“What happened?” he prodded softly.

OoOoOo

They’d done something to his lass, that was plain. Frightened her into obeying, most likely, and succeeded in full. Though the questions burned upon his tongue, he did not press further. Saldís was speaking with him. ‘Twas a start.

“I’ll not press for details you’re not ready to share, my Saldís,” he sighed. “But one day, I’m wanting to know the full of it.” 

Her hand spanned the distance between them to gently close about his beard braid. “I gave up,” she confessed in a whisper. “When I’d…killed. I don’t even remember it, Adâd,” she said in a ragged voice. “Rage claimed me. I couldn’t find a way out. It’s no excuse,” she hastened to add.

“How old were you?” he demanded, his voice gruff. Bifur was not certain he wished to hear the answer. 

Her tongue touched her upper lip. “It was just before my seventeenth birthday,” she confessed, her voice soft.

 _Sixteen._ His right hand balled into a fist beside his leg. 

“I don’t remember it,” she repeated. “I knew nothing until I stood over their bodies,” she said, voice now tight enough to fire an arrow across the Halls of War. “I knew Eru would never forgive me. That you wouldn’t. From that moment, I tried to forget everything of my past and survive. No,” she immediately corrected herself in a growl, her lip curling unpleasantly. “That’s a lie. I wanted revenge. Eru allowed me to be taken, and I decided that if I was damned anyway, I’d make Him pay.”

 _Mahal._ He framed her face in his palms and waited until their eyes locked. “You were wrong, my Saldís. Naught will stop me from loving you.” The subject of Eru, he let lie, for ‘twas plain that subject was a sore one.

Bifur exhaled shakily. Her words had painted a grim picture, indeed. He could envision it: his mule-headed lassie refusing to become what her abductors wished. She’d have fought, right enough. 

His throat tightened. She should not have had to fight alone. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for not finding her trail long ago. Nay, there was naught more he could have done, but his heart cared nothing for cold logic. 

Bifur ran one hand through her hair. Was it time to once again plait the adoption braid? Would she permit it? “I’m wanting your word.”

With hands folded in her lap, she waited with brow creased. 

“You’ll not leave us. I’ve no wish to wake one day and find you’ve left without word. I lost you once. I’ll not do so again.”

A hard light swam into being within her eyes, and her chin firmed. “They’ll come. It would be wiser if I led them away from here.”

Bifur could not halt the growl that rumbled to life low in his throat, nay he could not. “So you’ve said. I’d like nothing better than for them to dare enter our lands.”

“Adâd,” she said warningly. 

“Nay, lass. Don’t you be asking it. It’s my right as your sire to seek vengeance for what’s been done to this family.” To her. By Mahal, he had the right to extract a heavy price from the people who had dared it. “You can gripe and moan all ye like. It won’t change my feelings on the matter.”

Her hands bunched around fistfuls of her blanket and twisted, her expression one of frustration. Aye, well, that was two of them. “I won’t let them hurt this family,” she said, jaw at a stubborn angle. 

Bifur thought on the matter. She’d not rest so long as she believed him in danger, that was plain. It rankled that he’d lost his place as the most mighty of warriors in her eyes, but he had to concede that even had she never been stolen, like as not he would have been toppled from that august position long ago. 

How to allay her fears? How to keep her with her family where she needed to be? _We must convince her we are not simpletons but skilled warriors in our own right._ Aye, that was the path to take. “Then aid us, Gêdul.”

Her forehead crinkled, the question written upon her face.

“Show us,” he coaxed. “Show us how to fight a Black Númenórean. Tell us what it is we’ll be facing. Give us a chance to prove our worth as warriors before you cast us aside.”

A glimmer of interest ignited in somber gray eyes. “And if I deem you not equal to the task?” she asked.

Bifur’s eyes narrowed. It would not happen. 

Her lips curled. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek—Mahal, how long had it been?—before urging his head to hers. “You have a deal. But Adâd, if I judge you dwarves inadequate, I will leave.” There was no doubting the seriousness in her eyes. 

Bifur nodded, and with a grunt, urged them both from the bed. Food and a fresh change of clothes was what was needed now. Dori had visited whilst Saldís slept and left her a whole wardrobe of pants and tunics in colors ranging from reds and blues to silvers.

After, Bifur would seek out Dwalin and Dís. Saldís was ready to talk, and they needed to act fast on what they learned.


	18. Beginning Steps

### Chapter 18

Saldís paused in donning her tunic, her gaze captured by the image reflected back in the mirror suspended above her chest of clothes. The trousers Dori had sewn for her hugged her waist snugly, its dark charcoal color only broken by the silver Khuzdul rune for family embroidered repetitively around each ankle. She smoothed the winter gray tunic into place, a frown upon her lips. 

A stranger stared back at her. She slowly lifted her hair free of the collar. It spilled across her chest and back in loose, black waves. The hardness that had dominated her face for decades was gone, yet she was not the child who had once been. Who, then, was she?

Her life had been dedicated to one goal for longer than common men lived: preparing for the war to come. Honing herself in a tool that would see the Black Númenóreans succeed. The Duumvirate would rule at the Dark Lord’s behest…and she would have been well-nigh untouchable. 

Her lips twisted. _Coward._ With the blinders removed, she sneered at her former self’s myopic vision. Nay, her callous selfishness.

_Mahal._

A cold knot formed in her belly at the inadvertent use of that name. She heard it so often from Adâd’s lips, and her uncles’, that it was to be expected it slip into her vernacular as well.

Something she’d need to guard against. Saldís might have her family once more, but she was not so stupid as to believe any of the Valar—much less Eru—would listen to anything she had to say. If they’d ignored the child, they’d never hear the adult. Her crimes remained. If there was a smidgen of justice in Eru or His Valar, one day she’d be called to an accounting. 

The thought caused her blood to boil. Eru and the Valar possessed the power to call her to task, that she didn’t doubt, but given their abandonment of her as a child—of all the children in Caeldor—she vowed to curse them to the bitter end. Their hands were not clean, either. 

The expression staring back at her from within the mirror turned ugly in its hatred, a splash of cold water to the face. It was too reminiscent of where she’d been—no, _what_ she’d been—for too long. Swallowing, she buried the dark emotion, cramming it back into the recesses of her mind from which it had sprung. 

“Warg dung,” she whispered, rubbing her forehead. It frightened her how easily she could revert back to the cold and calculating Ib-Akhora. She wouldn’t allow it. _Never,_ she whispered in her soul. _I am Saldís, and Saldís I will remain._

For Bifur.

Her gaze caught upon the four glittering ruby earrings upon her right earlobe. With jerky movements, she wrenched them free. No more. She wanted nothing of that life touching her any longer. Her hand formed a fist about the studs, tight enough that the small posts dug into her flesh. With a low growl, she hurled the earrings across the room. 

Snatching up her belt, she lashed it around her waist. Sitting on the new, sturdier bed Bofur had crafted for her—her cheeky uncle had etched a scene of her child self sitting on his lap while he read to her on the headboard and a woeful depiction of himself gagged and tied to a chair on the footboard—she tugged upon the soft, black leather boots her ugmil’amad had constructed for her. 

Instead of striding out the door, she reflected on that for a moment, her anger fading. Every piece of clothing on her body had been fashioned by those who loved her. Each article was a tangible reminder that she was no longer alone. Her chest constricted. 

She’d never felt more unworthy.

Stifling the welling emotions, she rose.

By the Eye— _No._ She’d not dignifying _that_ one in her thoughts, either. Using his name as if he were some sort of deity? No more. 

Saldís ruffled her tresses, eyes locking upon themselves once more in the mirror. There was much she could no longer say about herself, but one thing remained true: she was a Weapon. The time for weakness was past. It was past time for healing, for reassembling the disparate pieces of herself and deciding just who she would become. 

Though she held little hope she’d ever become the kind of person worthy of these dwarves, Saldís determined to put her many years of training to use on their behalf. Starting that very day.

OoOoOo

Bifur glanced up as his daughter entered their main room in her new clothes. To his critical eye, she appeared better. Though pale, her shoulders were back, her chin lifted, and the terrible grief no longer marred her features. The echoes of strain remained, but they too would fade now that the storm had passed.

_By Mahal, let the storm have passed._

“Before we leave, I have a matter to discuss,” he broached. He’d given it much thought as he’d washed and dressed. His daughter was now severed from the bulk of her past, and he feared she’d feel adrift. He’d not let this opportunity pass to further restore her ties to her family. 

Saldís’s head cocked to one side. “That sounds serious,” she said, her expression a cautious question.

“Aye, and so it is.” Unfurling his fingers, he revealed to her a dozen gray beads upon his palm. “You belong with us,” he said as she stiffened. “’Tis time.” 

Gray eyes stared into his. Silence stretched longer than was comfortable, but Bifur made no attempt at argument. This was not something he could force though well did he wish otherwise. He wanted a braid to once more proclaim her as belonging to himself and the dwarves of Thorin’s Hall. He wanted the protection of his people firmly declared—a warning to her kin if they dared trespass that she belonged to the Khazâd and not the Black Númenóreans any longer. Satisfaction speared through him to see she’d already removed the rubies from her ear. 

_Time indeed._

A wee dent appeared above her nose, and her eyes betrayed conflict. The clock ticked away a handful of minutes before her expression cleared. “Alright,” she said softly.

He exhaled gustily, his fist closing upon the beads. “Aye?”

“Aye,” she said.

OoOoOo

Saldís held herself still as her adâd restored her adoption braid to her, chills pebbling her skin. It was a symbol, and she’d long since disavowed the power of symbols, yet as loop followed loop, the event took on a significance she could not deny.

Did Adâd know what this meant to her this time? She’d served the Duumvirate because she’d had no real choice. As Bifur braided the hair at her left temple, it became the sign of the new covenant she made in her own heart.

From this day forth, her fealty belonged to these dwarves alone. No one else would ever command her again. Should the Black Númenóreans capture her, she vowed to welcome the _brih tahn_ before being forsworn. 

Bifur and Uncle Bofur, Uncles Nori and Dori, her grandparents… They were what mattered. She didn’t much care what happened to the world of men. Men, she hated and suspected she always would. In her experience, the worst treachery came from that people. But the dwarves? 

_I will protect you,_ she promised them all. _With my life. On my blood, I swear it._

When he finished, her adâd wrapped his arms around her, an embrace she returned tightly. “Will you speak with Dwalin and Dís now?” Bifur asked. “Will you do that for me, my Saldís?”

She pressed a palm to his cheek. An honest face, she labeled it. Not smooth and unnaturally elegant, but bearded and rough with age. The Black Númenóreans might possess surreal beauty, but she much preferred looking upon dwarf features. 

Her hand descended to gently wrap around the braid in his beard. “I need to see Dori and Nori first,” she said. Her two uncles had stood between her and escape. She didn’t remember much after that moment when she’d realized Bifur had heard of her crimes, and she feared what she might have done to them.

Bifur grunted. “They have been asking for you.”

OoOoOo

A handful of minutes later, Bifur departed the Ris’ residence with reluctance. ‘Twas good to see his Saldís embracing her family once more instead of closing herself off from them. That cursed wall was down, and as the hours passed, he dared to hope it would remain that way.

Saldís had swayed on her feet at her first sight of the damage she’d done to her uncles, but bless Dori, he’d hauled her into his arms before she could utter words of apology. 

Nori had caught Bifur’s eye. In Iglishmêk, the former thief had signed, _*All is well?*_

Bifur had nodded minutely and blinked back the welling of tears. _*My daughter is back.*_

Nori had slowly smiled. _*Aye. So she is.*_ The ex-thief’s hand had lifted to Saldís’s braid, satisfaction upon his face. Then with a pursed brow, _*You’re leaving?*_

_*She’s agreed to speak with Dwalin. I go to inform him. You’ll watch over her?*_

Nori’s expression had turned sour. Aloud, he’d muttered, “As if ye need to ask, Umral. Go. We’ll be fine.”

Aye. For the first time in decades, Bifur believed that.

OoOoOo

Saldís hid her face in Dori’s neck.

She’d hurt _Dori._ Her resolution to buck up was capsized by the revelation. Though he told her in his kind voice that he was well, his face sported a blotchy bruise on the left cheek. Worse, ragged, scabbed-over scratches ran parallel to one another across his forehead and down the same bruised cheek. 

Her temper had done that, and a sense of tiredness stole over her. It stemmed from guilt, and she wondered if she’d ever be free of the emotion again. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said, pulling back to next examine Nori. He, too, bore signs of abuse. She met Nori’s light eyes directly. “For harming you. For my words.”

Nori hugged her next, tucking her against his side. “It’s nothing more than we’d have accumulated in a good brawl,” he said. A measure of sobriety lingered despite his easy tone. Then he cocked his head to one side. “To be honest, it’s been too long since we’ve had one of those.”

“Oh, pish-posh,” Dori said, swatting at Nori’s arm. “A good brawl? Have you no dignity?”

“Dignity?” He sniffed. “Sounds boring. Tell me, you old fuss-pot, when was the last time you indulged?” 

Dori scowled. “I certainly don’t pick fights in the pub merely for sport!”

To Saldís, Nori murmured, “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” 

Dori harrumphed, Nori winked, and Saldís…laughed. 

_Home._ The feeling burbled joyfully through her. She had a home.

OoOoOo

Bifur delayed his errand long enough to mosey into his cousin’s quarters unannounced. Bofur froze with fork lifted to his lips, a fine smelling meal arrayed before him (if Bifur did say so himself).

Bifur did not wait. With a tiny smirk, he latched onto his cousin’s wrist and dragged him out the door with him. His steps turned towards the Lord’s Hall, that which had been set aside for their king-in-exile and his family since the founding of the settlement. Now, Lady Dís and Dwalin alone resided in that section of their halls. A sad reminder, the doors leading to the many empty chambers, of what they’d lost reclaiming Erebor. 

Bofur gamely trotted down the hallway in Bifur’s wake. With a sharp look, Bofur took the bite off his fork, chewed, and then twirled the fork around one finger. “Mind telling a dwarf why he’s been so cruelly taken away from his meal?” He glanced around curiously. “Do ye have any ideas the favors I had to call in to get a pot of Lofar’s famed roast with wild onion and rosemary chips?”

Lofar’s? That explained the succulent smell, for Bofur’s culinary skills—unlike his brother’s—were a sorry thing indeed. Bifur knew from experience, having been the recipient of Bofur’s so-called cooking attempts before. “And you didn’t invite me,” he murmured. 

His cousin gave the fork a last twirl before tucking it in a pocket with a pat. “Where Lofar’s cooking is concerned, it’s each dwarf for himself, Cousin.” A cheeky grin flashed his way. Then turning more serious, Bofur asked, “Is Saldís…?” 

“Well,” Bifur said shortly. “She’s with Dori and Nori.” His lips quirked as Bofur heaved a sigh of relief. Unable to mask the emotions surging through him, Bifur took a ragged inhale and added, “She allowed me to place the braid of adoption within her hair once more, Bofur.”

Bofur stopped him with one hand to the arm. “This had best not be a jest.”

Bifur grunted, reluctant amusement finding him. “Last I looked, ‘twas Bifur staring back at me in the mirror and not Bofur.” 

With a wide grin, his cousin sallied, “Well, it cannot be every dwarf blessed with such handsome features as myself.”

The snort escaped Bifur despite his best efforts. “Is that what it’s called? Handsome?”

Bofur pressed one hand to his chest. “I think I’ve been insulted.”

Bifur nudged Bofur into motion once more. Then soberly, “I’d not jest about the adoption braid.”

Bofur’s head dipped in acknowledgment of that truth. “Mahal preserve me.” He exhaled gustily. “She’s content to stay? No more plotting to leave us?”

Bifur scowled down the long hallway before them, his mood darkening. In a sour grumble, he said, “She tells me she will stay if we prove our mettle.” 

“Eh, what?” 

Bifur flexed his wrist to relieve a minor ache, irritation growing. “She’s stated her intent to depart if she thinks we are no match for these ‘Black Númenóreans’.”

His cousin pursed his lips and whistled a low note. “And if she’s right?”

Right? Bifur scowled at that nonsense. “I’d like to hear you repeat those words to Dwalin.”

Bofur rubbed his neck with an exaggerated grimace. “Are you trying to be rid of me that you’d suggest such a thing?” he asked, laughter dancing in his eyes. With a shake of his head, “I doubt it possible, but we’ve seen our Saldís fight, Bifur. There’s not many here who could stand against her with sword in hand.”

Bifur could not help the growl that burst from his throat. “I’ll not lose her.”

An arm looped around his shoulders as they marched down the hall in tandem. “I’ll not let you.” A pause. “Do ye think she’ll up and vanish on us if she decides we cannot protect ourselves from this enemy?” 

Bifur considered the question and shook his head. “Nay, she’d not do that to me,” he said. Bofur’s swift look told Bifur he’d not managed to conceal the wee filament of uncertainty in his voice, but before they could pursue the matter further, they’d reached their destination. Ornate, arching doors depicted the Lonely Mountain herself and Erebor in all its glory. A reminder that had likely played a part in Thorin’s decision all those decades ago, Bifur mused.

To one of the two guards posted outside the door, Bifur posed his request to speak with Lord Dwalin. That one slipped inside Dwalin’s inner chambers, closing the door behind him.

As they waited, Bofur tugged upon one earlobe. In an undertone, he said, “I’ll be having a chat with that niece of mine on the matter once we are finished here.” Another pause. “What _are_ we doing here?”

“Saldís is ready to speak.” A short look passed between the cousins. 

Bofur whistled again, eyebrows climbing, but before he could speak, Lord Dwalin’s steward, Nali, opened the grand doors into their lord’s private chambers and waved the two cousins inside. Bifur knew Nali, a dwarf with features as craggy as the mountains themselves, to put name to. If asked before that moment, he’d have said the iron-haired dwarf taciturn to an unhealthy degree, but eyeing him, Bifur thought Nali looked like a dwarf anticipating vengeance. 

Bifur glanced Bofur’s way. What was this about?

Nali’s dark glee took on new ramifications when Bifur stepped across the threshold, for right away, he noted Lady Dís, Captain Ganar, and Dwalin at a table, soiled plates and cups discarded to one side and papers spread before them. From the looks of things, Nali and the other three had been in deep talks since the night before. ‘Twas written upon their rumpled clothing and tired faces.

Something was afoot.

“I was about to send for you,” Dwalin said shortly, his gaze cutting towards the two toymakers. Dwalin’s chin jerked upwards. “Your daughter?”

“With Dori and Nori,” Bifur said, brow crinkling. Send for them?

Dwalin grunted with apparent satisfaction. “A raven brought word from Erebor. Lord Hlein of Kalil Kilmîn and his companions arrived three weeks ago with an escort of two dozen Stiffbeard warriors.”

_Aye?_ Lord Hlein’s disappearance had been a much-discussed mystery. That the dwarf and his travel companions lived was welcome news indeed. Bifur’s sympathies had been roused for the unknown families of the three, for did he not know how the heart suffered, wondering and fearing? 

Bofur scratched his jaw, his brow furrowed. “Stiffbeards?” he asked. “How in Durin’s name did they wind up with the Stiffbeards?”

Dís straightened, a fiercely victorious expression upon her face. Slow steps carried her towards Bifur. “Even before Dale, the enemy’s hold on your Saldís was not complete,” she addressed as if to Bifur alone. “Hlein tells Dain he was abducted by Corsairs along with his escort and taken south to Umbar.”

_Umbar?_ Bifur’s attention sharpened.

Lady Dís placed a hand upon Bifur’s arm. “Saldís set them free, Bifur. Set them free and instructed them to go east to avoid recapture.”

“That’s where they’ve been all this while?” Bofur asked.

Dís nodded shortly. “Reaching the Orocarni was no simple feat, but the three succeeded.”

“Carrying news of these Black Númenóreans,” Dwalin added with a distracted air, his gaze upon a map before him. 

_Mahal._ So that was what had put that predatory gleam in Nali’s eyes. Could it be Dwalin planned a retaliatory strike?

_Saldís._ She’d said not one word of this. Bifur’s chest burned with a swelling of emotion. Pride, aye, there was that, but also exultation. Hlein was sure to have forwarded valuable information, mayhap things his Saldís would have missed not being a dwarf craftsman herself. Saldís would know the armaments guarding Caeldor, aye, but a dwarf would know what they had been made out of. A keen eye could ferret out weaknesses.

“My Saldís is ready to tell us all,” Bifur announced abruptly. 

Dwalin’s head whipped towards him. Nali rubbed his hands together with obvious relish. From Dwalin’s other side, fiery-haired Captain Ganar rocked upon his heels, the odd red-amber of the Firebeard’s irises barely visible through his slit eyes. One knuckle rapped upon the table rhythmically. Lady Dís rejoined the other dwarves at the table, her lips pursed. 

For a long stretch, Dwalin and Bifur stared at one another. “The Dark Lord will rue the day he stole a child from Durin’s folk,” Dwalin said. 

Bifur exhaled slowly, in full agreement with his friend and liege. Bofur caught his eye, waggling eyebrows in question. Bifur inclined his head. ‘Twas decided. When the time came, Bifur would be playing a part in whatever counter-strike was decided upon. From Bofur’s pleased expression, his cousin planned to be at his side.

As always. 

“This changes things,” Dwalin said. Gesturing the two toymakers to the table, he poked one blunt finger onto the map splayed upon its surface. “Our maps are outdated, but as best Hlein could tell, their abductors took them somewhere hereabouts.” 

Bofur’s shoulder brushed Bifur’s as his cousin leaned in. “That would be a large area to search if we did not have Saldís,” Bofur said. 

“Aye,” Dís agreed. “And much of it is flat desert. I’m hoping your niece will have some suggestions about traversing those lands undetected.” She reclaimed her seat with weary sigh. Her bright blue eyes lifted to Bifur. “While I agree that at some point we’ll need to address these Black Númenóreans, the more urgent need is information about their capabilities and the Dark Lord’s plans.” 

Bifur was nodding before the princess had finished. He folded arms across his chest. “She’s promised to answer our questions and teach us how to fight her blood-kin.”

Dís’s brows flew high. “She intends to stay,” the princess said with satisfaction.

_“If_ we prove apt pupils,” Bofur threw in.

Dwalin frowned, his muscular arms akimbo. “She has a lot to relearn about Durin’s folk if she doubts.” A gleam entered their friend and lord’s eyes. “I’m looking forward to putting her through her paces to see what she can do.”

Bifur and Bofur exchanged short, amused glances. Bofur cleared his throat.

Dwalin’s bushy brows slammed downward. “Don’t tell me you think she can defeat me.”

Bofur pointedly examined the ceiling—more to rile their friend than aught else, Bifur suspected with a spurt of amusement. It worked, too, for Dwalin’s expression darkened with insult.

Bifur drew Dwalin’s gaze by clearing his throat. “On that, I’m not certain. But I’ll tell you this, Dwalin. She’s a fierce fighter, and as agile as an elf.” He considered the matter for a heartbeat before adding, “I don’t want her crossing swords with family as we measure her skills. Those…people…taught her to slay anyone put before her in challenge. She knows our ways are different, and she’ll not try to harm a dwarf, I don’t think, but she fell apart once when I suggested a bout. I’ll not see that repeated.”

Dwalin bobbed his head shortly. “She’ll come to no harm. I’ll assess her myself.”

“Nay.” All eyes turned to Dís at her sharp denunciation. 

Dwalin twisted towards the princess, affront stamped all over his face. Bifur was none too happy either, for he fully trusted Dwalin with his Saldís. 

The princess leveled them all with a cool glance. “Already, some are leery of her. Should an accident occur while sparring, especially if it is _you,_ Dwalin, sentiment will turn against her.” Dís rose. “The same holds true with you, Ganar. Gimli would be ideal, but in his absence, I’d recommend Finnin. You can coach her and watch them square off, but let it be Finnin who crosses blades with her. He’s good, and he has reason to care.” Her voice gentled, “This may just be what he needs to regain his honor in his own sight.”

_Aye, true enough._ Bifur exhaled in a rush. Dís had the right of it. Never would Bifur stand in the way of Finnin regaining his pride. 

Dwalin waved his grudging assent. “Fine. I’ll not fight the girl myself.” With a grumpy look towards Dís, he said, “But I will watch.”

“Of course.” Dís smiled.


	19. Repercussions

### Chapter 19

_**17 October TA 3018  
Caeldor, Tovennen** _

Ar-Kimilzor burned with hatred as his body writhed upon the thick carpeting of his bedchamber. The muscles of his neck corded, and he panted, laboring to drag air into his lungs despite the fiery agony ripping through his chest.

Valkthor’s words of gloating replayed in his mind. The lack-wit had tarried, secure in his victory. Valkthor clearly believed Kimilzor’s death inevitable. The warg-spawn had only departed when duty demanded, reporting for his next watch on time so as not to come under scrutiny.

Leaving a failing yet not dead Kimilzor behind. A fool’s mistake. The cur’s arrogance would be his downfall. Kimilzor himself would see it done…should he survive. 

The Arcanist choked on spittle as another dagger’s thrust of slicing pain speared through him. He’d never seen the poison coming, a fact he blamed upon the many demands placed upon him. Planning their first full campaign to conquer Agar and take possession of its needed resources had consumed his attention. 

It seemed he was a fool as well. A child’s mistake, this, and he simmered with humiliation to know it. 

A sudden gasp, a bitter little laugh. If Valkthor thought any of the Six Lords so simply cast aside, he did not understand their service to the Dark Lord. Lesser ranking soldiers were fodder. Useful, yes, but kept in ignorance of the exact nature of the power they served. Sauron did not share power. He _controlled._ He claimed and used. 

Kimilzor’s hand found his pendant. Imbued with a dormant addition the day he’d been elevated as Lord Sangahyando, it was no longer a simple pendant as most Arcanists wore. He was a Lord, and a Lord had other…protections. If the Dark Lord cared to intervene. 

As his body spasmed, he squeezed the Eye pendant so tightly that blood flowed from lacerations caused by its sharp edges. Bathed in blood, the sleeping pendant awoke. 

Kimilzor stilled in his innermost being as the Dark Lord’s attention burned through the long distance between them, idly noting his plight. At first, Sauron seemed eminently disinterested. 

“Revenge,” Kimilzor managed. His spirit shook with the force of his desire to see himself avenged on the upstart who had all but destroyed his body. Images filled his mind of Valkthor screaming upon an altar to the Darkness, and he thrummed with the desire to see each enacted. 

His master’s attention sharpened upon him. _“Serve me,”_ thundered in his head. _“Serve and live.”_

Exultation filled him. Yes, this was what he’d hoped. That his lord would see the benefit in keeping him alive. “I…will serve,” he gasped. Did he not already?

Dark power filled him, power like none he’d ever experienced in his one hundred and twenty years as an Arcanist. The wealth of it… Kimilzor laughed within the confines of his own skull. _Piddling insects,_ he directed towards the Duumvirate. With this might at his disposal, they would topple before him like the rankest Novice holding his first sword. 

But then new pain contorted his body. Sauron…changed it. At first, his frame was imbued with new strength, overriding any other concerns. 

_“You will be my Mouth,”_ Sauron crooned.

A touch of confusion. A flicker of alarm. 

Kimilzor screamed, spine bowing in an upward arc. The fiery substance of Sauron’s soul-stuff charred through him. The pain rivaled the worst of tortures and seemed to go on and on. 

_No._ There was no fighting the horrifying power exerting its will upon his body, none to cry to as his master seared large swathes of Kimilzor’s self-will away. The ambitions, the games, they vanished as if they’d never been. 

In the end, little of the Kimilzor-who-was remained. 

There was only the Mouth…and a zealous commitment to serve Sauron.

OoOoOo

__  
**18 October TA 3018  
Caeldor, Tovennen**

Ib-Valkthor shuddered as he stood among the throng lining the main thoroughfare through Caeldor. The…Mouth…was departing for Mordor with a large contingent of both Weapons and Arcanists at his back. 

Terror congealed in Valkthor’s gut. All those years of clawing to the top, wasted. Victory had never tasted so bitter as he witnessed just what rank could cost. 

By the Eye…what if his bid for power had landed him the highest of promotions? He, Valkthor, could be where the new Lord Sangahyando stood. 

Ar-Nahlis, a gray-haired, hardened Weapon, betrayed none of the fear beading Valkthor’s brow with sweat—had the woman no sense of self-preservation?—but rather watched with blank face as the parade of Arcanists and Weapons bound for Mordor passed before them in full war attire. 

Valkthor was pathetically grateful he was not the commander from House Sangahyando chosen to lead their first tithe of warriors north. He could not stomach looking at the face of the man who’d once been an older mirror of himself for weeks on end. 

The shell of what had once been Lord Sangahyando was grotesquely distorted. He was no longer a proud son of Numenor, but a caricature more at home among orcs and the Nazgûl. A monster. 

What had the Dark Lord done to him?

Valkthor was not the only soul impacted by Kimilzor’s transformation. Overnight, the games for position had halted. No Arcanist or Weapon, no matter how ambitious, harbored any desire to inch closer to lordship over a House. Not any longer. None wished to become…that. 

Valkthor shuddered, his mind returning to his promotion within the white expanse of the Seat that very morning. Terrified that the Duumvirate intended to see him elevated to Kimilzor’s former position, Valkthor had almost pleaded that Akhora might yet live, that she was eminently more suited to the role. 

But the Mouth had been there. Staring at him. Valkthor had found himself unable to speak. Sauron watched through black eyes that had once burned green, and he’d known—Valkthor had _known_ —that should he speak of his failure to ensure Akhora’s death, he would die horribly.

So he held his silence like a shield, almost piddling himself when he received not the fifth earring but only the fourth. _Ib-Valkthor._ Not Ar, but Ib. 

The near miss left him shaky and furious. He vowed to throw himself into his new role. He would do nothing to stand out among his fellow commanders. His duties would be performed with exact obedience to the orders given him. Nothing more, nothing less.

With any luck and by keeping his head down, Valkthor hoped to survive not only the war to come…but his master’s attentions as well.

OoOoOo

__  
**20 November TA 3018 - Saldís 90  
Thorin’s Hall**

Bifur worked a piece of wood with his carving knife, his attention fixed upon the two combatants sparring in the center of a square platform in front of him. ‘Twas the truth, he barely paid attention to his project, so lively was the fight taking place, and he was not the only dwarf riveted by the action. The platform was surrounded by bearded observers with intent looks upon their faces, and that despite the fact the fighting had left the platform more than once. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye preceded a body plopping onto the seat beside him. The silhouette of a floppy hat told him who it was. 

With the barest of nods, Bifur rumbled, “Cousin.”

“G’morning,” Bofur mumbled around a yawn.

“Late night?”

Bofur threw a sheepish grin his way. “Nori and I dragged Dori to the pub.”

_Ah._ He’d heard about the conversation Saldís had witnessed between the brothers. Bifur assumed his cousin and the ex-thief had instigated quite the bar fight. “Poor Dori,” he murmured.

“Poor me, rather,” Bofur objected. “Dori has a mean left hook.” A wink, and Bofur changed the subject. “The lad’s still on his feet?” Bofur asked with amusement. When Bifur’s own lips failed to twitch, Bofur nudge him in the side. “She’s a skilled warrior. If you were Gloin, you’d be bragging to all and sundry about your daughter’s prowess.”

Bifur grunted. Mayhap that was so, but Bifur had weightier considerations than merely his child’s skill with arms. He wished her safe, and there was little of such to be found on a battlefield. Nay, it had not come to that yet, but after learning all they had about Mordor, Bifur knew war would come. ‘Twas a matter of when and not if. 

Nori and Dori materialized next, Nori claiming a seat on Bifur’s opposite side and Dori choosing to sit behind them higher up on the stone stands. From the smirk upon Dori’s face coupled with his bruised knuckles, Bifur assumed the eldest of the Ri brothers was responsible for the mottled blue coloring upon Nori’s lower cheek. Nori’s answering glower confirmed as much.

Bofur exchanged greetings with both before leaning close to Bifur. “What has you worried?”

Bifur delayed answering, choosing his words. His gaze shifted to where Dwalin watched Saldís and Finnin circle each other warily. Catching Bifur’s eye, Dwalin left his position beside the platform and, signaling Bofur to vacate his seat, claimed the spot beside Bifur. 

Conversation all around them ceased, and Bifur tensed as Finnin attempt a series of hard blows with his battle ax. Saldís danced around the swipes, sweat dotting her face. She used the two small-sized clubs in her hands to parry only when necessary. 

Bifur had noted that about her fighting style right away, and he knew the others had as well. She conserved her strength, relying upon swift, targeted strikes rather than strong, sweeping slashes. After the first bout between Finnin and Saldís, many had commented among themselves that facing a Black Númenórean—the Weapons among them, at any rate—would be very similar to fighting an elf. ‘Twas brute strength against agility, and both Finnin and Saldís had taken turns pinned to the ground with the other crowing above him. 

Dwalin cracked the knuckles of one hand, a pleased expression on his bearded face. To Bifur, he murmured, “She’s good.”

Bifur’s face twisted sourly. Aye, he’d heard that often in the last two months. “Too good.”

Dwalin grunted. “An army of fighters like her is a daunting thought, but the new training I’ve instituted will see our warriors well equipped to counter them. Saldís claims she is not the best of them, but she was far from the least skilled.” He drew one hand down his full beard. “If only we had an Arcanist to train against as well.”

Bifur knew what Dwalin meant, and he agreed, but Dori instantly sputtered and snapped, “I much prefer that our Saldís was never exposed to that kind of learning, thank you very much.” Bifur’s lips curved upwards at the absolute outrage Dori radiated. 

Bofur and Nori sidled away from the riled dwarf, Bofur with a dry, “You’ll be wanting to watch his left hook, Dwalin. It packs a mean punch.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dwalin groused to Dori even as Dori smacked Bofur on the arm with the back of one hand. With a last frown at Bofur and Dori, Dwalin said, “Even with what Saldís and our lore-keepers can tell us, it’s a site different facing such things than hearing about them.”

_Aye._ Bifur massaged the skin beneath the ax head in his skull. Men capable not only of vanishing into thin air as he, Nori, and Bofur had witnessed in Dale, but capable of summoning the very insects to their cause. 

And that was not the least of it. Saldís had told them how the Arcanists could, if prepared, wield the very elements, influence minds with their words, and summon weapons to their hands. Blood collected from their evil rites fueled their magics, and based upon her observations, they had much of it at their disposal. 

“Find them, and kill them,” Nori said flatly, his attention on the combatants as Finnin left the platform with a grin and kicked up random items so that they flew towards Saldís’s chest. Towels and boots, for the most part. “I’m guessing here, lads, but I suspect its a mite difficult to be casting spells with your throat slit.”

_Aye._ Given what those Arcanists did regularly, Bifur knew he was not the only soul who would gladly end those sorcerers without compunction. 

Saldís glared and weaved around Finnin’s projectiles. The first time Finnin had lobbed a random weight at her, she’d looked taken aback, but Saldís was nothing if not adaptable. She’d grown well used to a dwarf’s penchant for utilizing anything in reach as a weapon.

“Do the lore-keepers have no hope to offer?” Dori asked, his round face creased in concern.

Dwalin snorted. “They but remind me that Mahal fashioned us to be sturdier than the other peoples.” Satisfaction gleamed in Dwalin’s eyes, and the burly dwarf smirked. “Elves may be able to counter their magics. We can resist them.”

Conversation paused as a well-placed blow by Bifur’s daughter sent Finnin’s ax flying out of his reach. Finnin instantly drew two daggers from his boots and rolled back onto the platform and to his feet. From Dwalin’s slight smile, the Lord of Thorin’s Hall was pleased with the skill on display. 

“Any signs of them?” Bifur asked softly as the two combatants reengaged. 

Dwalin grunted again. “Nothing. None of the towns of men hereabouts have reported any strangers, and the ravens confirm it. So far as I can tell, the Black Númenóreans have not located Saldís.”

“Dain?”

“His last report said the same.”

Bifur tapped the hilt of his whittling knife against the length of wood in a short pattern. Relief filled him. There was time yet before war arrived on their doorstep.

OoOoOo

Finnin prowled to the side, one foot crossing the other. With Saldís’s lightning-quick moves, a dwarf did well to keep his balance firmly planted.

Ten weeks of such bouts, and Finnin was no closer to boredom than the first time they’d faced off. The family Ur’s daughter had proved lithe and quicksilver, often changing tactics in the middle of a swing. It was enough to keep a dwarf on his toes. 

Happily.

He allowed a gleam of satisfaction to enter his eyes, and right enough, something swam in those stormy eyes of hers. She never bantered though he’d thrown dozens of jesting slurs her way. It was as if the instant a foe was before her, there was no room for anything but the destruction of the poor fool witless enough to find himself in her cross hairs. 

Which, he supposed, meant he was a fool, but by his sire’s war ax, he’d rarely been so challenged. She was an exacting taskmaster. The one time he’d made the mistake of underestimating how seriously she took such bouts, looking away to exchange insults with his brother, she’d had him disarmed and on the ground with her blade to his throat so fast, he’d been fairly stunned. Finnur, disloyal cur that he was, had almost toppled from the stands in laughter. 

Saldís had been furious with Finnin, snapping that such idiocy would get him killed. Finnin had tried to explain the difference between a bout and war, but she had yet to demonstrate that she understood the difference. 

Finnin continued to circle with slow steps, his daggers in shielding position. From this stance, if she gave him an opening, he’d pounce upon it. 

Saldís twirled her two small clubs. She lashed out with one foot, and Finnin jumped to avoid being tripped, a fierce grin on his face. “I’m wise to your tricks, Dushin-Mizim,” he said.

A spark. It was fleeting, but Finnin celebrated to see it. He much preferred that she enjoy their time sparring. Though it was slow to come, he fancied she did look forward to the hours spent here.

She exploded in a sudden attack, clubs swinging from opposite directions. Finnin threw himself into a counterattack, enjoying himself immensely even when one club connected with his hip. _That will leave a nice bruise._

By Mahal. The little lass who’d scampered underfoot with his brother had grown up, and Finnin could not be more pleased with the strong warrior before him. He’d been shocked at first to find how skilled she was. Now, he found their time exhilarating. By Durin, should they ever find cause to fight side-by-side, he knew his flank would be well protected. 

When they finally left the platform at the conclusion of their bout, both dripped sweat. Rank, dwarf and lass equally, and in dire need of a bar of soap and a bucket of water. Finnin snorted to himself and considered that he was likely in the best fighting shape of his life..and the cleanest with the frequent baths such exertion required. 

“Finnin?” 

His chin lifted in silent question as he led her to the weapon racks to return her clubs. Saldís methodically inspected each club in turn before returning them to their shelves. ‘Twas another reason he had come to respect the lass so. She was careful with her weapons, borrowed or not. 

When she delayed continuing with her words, he prodded, “I’ll not bite. Ask your question.”

With a minute frown, she pivoted towards him, arms at her sides. She looked ill at ease. He did not rush her. It was rare she spoke with any but her family. That she initiated conversation with him was proof enough to his mind that she was growing to trust him, if only just a little. 

“Why do you not braid your beard?” she asked. “You’ve more than earned enough braids to make most warriors envious.” 

His grin flashed at the roundabout compliment even as he winced at the reminder of his past failures. 

Her expression changed. The short shake of her head told him she was but a heartbeat away from retracting her words. 

Finnin lifted one hand, halting her retreat. “You of all people have the right to ask.” 

He glimpsed but the beginnings of a frown before her head turned, presenting him with the smooth, clean lines of her profile. Her gaze drifted to where her family sat on the stone stands hugging one wall of the hall. 

If she needed that distance, Finnin decided he’d grant it. He likewise directed his attention elsewhere. 

He almost grinned upon spying his black-haired friend, Ragan, dueling Captain Ganar himself not far away. _Good luck, my friend._ Finnin had faced Ganar more than once himself, so he well knew how this bout would end. Finnin was good, and well he knew it. But Ganar could stand toe-to-toe with Dwalin for long stretches of time, a feat no other could claim but Gimli. 

He knew full well what Ragan was about. Many a dwarf in Thorin’s Hall had taken to honing his weapons skills with feverish determination. After Saldís’s revelations, Mordor weighed heavily on them all. 

Thoughts of Mordor naturally looped back to the subject at hand. Leaning upon the haft of his war-ax, Finnin abruptly broke the silence stretching between them. “It was my mistake that let you be taken. I cost you all, Saldís, and I’ve not forgotten it.” If anything, he thought grimly, his debt had only grown since learning her fate. 

She seemed to chew that over, though it was hard to tell with his gaze fixed upon her uncles and adâd. Saldís remained frustratingly reserved around all but her family. Finnin would not risk ruining this rare moment of openness. It felt too important to him.

“I was the one to run off,” she said slowly.

Finnin’s lips contorted with old bitterness. “You were but a child, Dushin-Mizim. The fault was not yours. I allowed myself to be distracted, and you were taken. It is not a wrong easily put to rights.” With a grunt, he hoisted his ax upon one shoulder. “Soon after, my friend and prince left with the king to reclaim Erebor.” His nostrils flared with renewed self-recriminations. “We lost them. Fíli, Kíli, and Thorin. Fíli was not my sword-brother—he and Kíli were loyal first to each other—but he was my friend. One ax— _my_ ax—might have made a difference.”

Surely a dwarf had never been so shocked as Saldís placed a tentative hand upon his bicep. Her voice was hesitant and awkward as she said, “Or you could have been slain at their side. Asking ‘what if’ is a game you cannot win.” 

_Ah, lassie._ There was such a trove of bitter experience in her words. 

As if to herself, she said, “The past is done. There is no changing it.” Then her gray eyes flicked Finnin’s way. “If my opinion matters, I think it a blessing to your people that _they_ still have your ax to defend them. They will need it.”

Without another word, she walked off to rejoin her sire, leaving Finnin staring after her. The sensation of slender fingers like butterfly wings remained on his skin for some time.

OoOoOo

_  
**26 November TA 3018 - Saldís 90**  
_

Saldís sat at Bifur’s feet, her back supported by the leg of his chair. Her body was pleasantly tired and sore from an especially grueling bout with Finnin. 

Lord Dwalin had recently expanded her role, pitting her against a host of other dwarrow. As Lord Dwalin had pronounced, the more who had real experience against her ways of fighting, the better, but it had been enjoyable to once again face off with Finnin. 

With Finnin, bouts almost became…play. She could let loose, knowing he possessed sufficient skill to match her. 

With slow care, she guided the whetstone in her hand across the curved surface of the new scimitar Ugmil’adad Balfur had presented her the night before. The craftsmanship far surpassed anything she’d ever possessed—the Duumvirate would be horrified to learn just how outmatched they were in this area—and she was humbled that Ugmil’adad had listened to her tales of Tovennen closely enough to realize how naked she felt without the familiar blade strapped to her side. 

If she could only convince her family of the benefits to the spices and hot peppers she was accustomed to, as well, she inwardly sighed. Saldís vowed that she’d even wear a dress for an entire day if she could sink her teeth into food with a real bite. Something spicy.

Much of the dwarves’ fare was heavy with fat and savory with rosemary and thyme, but their culinary repertoire was sadly lacking in her opinion. Who would have thought dwarves ignorant to the wonders of a simple lentil curry? Or a hot pepper filled with melted cheese? 

Bifur played his clarinet from the chair behind her. She had not yet dared pick up the flute he’d made for her, had not been able to bring herself to join him as she had as a child in piping out tunes. The flute sat on the mantel beside the clock, and she was sure it would stay there until she was ready for it. 

If she was ever ready for it. Too many memories were associated with flutes.

_One day,_ she promised herself, allowing the resurgence of inner turmoil to subside. 

Saldís and Bifur had been content with quiet companionship for over an hour now, each lost to his or her thoughts. A blessed change, Saldís thought with a spurt of amusement, to the never-ending chatter she’d been besieged with before her break down.

Two months had passed since that day. Two months in which Saldís had spent the bulk of each day answering questions from Dwalin, Ganar and others as well as sparring with dwarves in the Halls of War. Despite that, Saldís could not quell the growing feeling that she should be doing more. Restlessness burned within her bones along with a growing suspicion. 

_What are you doing,_ she questioned of her former people. That none of the Númenóreans had come after her did not bring her comfort. Quite the opposite. They did not tolerate traitors to live. Sauron would never permit it, especially when the traitor in question knew too many of his secrets. Why, then, had none moved against her? 

_War,_ an inner voice warned. _The_ war. Could it be true?

The disturbing possibility robbed her of sleep. Though these dwarves could and would fight when Mordor’s forces reached their lands, perhaps sooner if they rallied to Erebor when it inevitably faced the enemy first, she could only see failure on the horizon. Death and destruction.

_The world will fall into Shadow._ She’d believed that for almost the entirety of her life. One driving question plagued her: what did she intend to do about it? She sighed, leaning against Bifur’s leg. How could she protect him? How could she protect all of them? 

His tune faltered, but when she said nothing, he resumed playing.

Victory. Dare she hope for it? 

_No._ To believe would be the worst self-deception of all. But she was a Weapon. She’d sooner be relegated to a lifetime of prissy, flouncy dresses than wait for the tide of war to reach her home. By the time war arrived this far west and north, the end would be determined. Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith, Dale, Erebor, and many others would already be destroyed. She set the sword and whetstone aside and rested her cheek upon her adâd’s knee. 

An indulgence. She’d had to be strong with none to trust for so long. 

He stopped playing. One hand came to the crown of her head. “Your silence is heavy, Gêdul.” 

A tiny smile played about her lips. “You need to choose a more appropriate name.”

“Eh?”

The smile wilted. “I’m not very joyful, Adâd, am I?” Lifting her head, she caught his hand in hers as their eyes met. “I’ve forgotten how.”

“Your soul is quiet,” he said after a silent moment. “Relearning what it is to have peace and love.”

Saldís spun about on her tail bone to face him. Curling one arm around his leg, she settled her chin upon his knee. “Is that what I’m doing?” For inside, she felt frantic to find some way to protect this family of hers. To hold tight to this life she was rediscovering. She could not lose this again. 

His hand rifled through her hair in a gentle caress. “What has you so somber this night?”  
She stared into his dark eyes, memorizing the peace of the moment. “Mordor,” she confessed.

OoOoOo

_Mordor._ Aye, it had been on his mind as well. From the picture his Saldís’s words had painted, the Enemy had been secretly busy for too long now. The armies she described had kept him tossing on his bed many a night. How not?

The day after Saldís had begun telling them of the forces she’d seen, he’d sent word to Bombur in Erebor to pack up his family and bring them west. Thorin’s Hall was not the stronghold that Erebor was, but it was farther removed from Mordor and Angmar. Bifur wanted to watch his nephews and niece mature, wed, and sire dwarflings of their own. The farther from Mordor’s stench they were, the happier Bifur would be. 

“Aye,” he said at last. “It weighs on my mind as well, my Saldís.”

“Uncle Bombur is coming?”

Bifur nodded. “With your cousins and Aunt Siv.” He tugged upon her adoption braid. “I never thought I’d have the pleasure of introducing you.”

A flicker of her eyes caught him off guard. His gut cooled. 

She did not believe such a meeting would come to pass. She’d expressed no fear for her uncle or his family in journeying west to them. That left Bifur with only one conclusion to draw. Saldís didn’t expect to be within these halls to welcome them.

Mahal. Was she truly planning of leaving? He brushed fingers across her forehead, watching as her eyelids descended. 

Mordor. Sure as a dwarf loved a good ale, it was that threat that moved her. She could not plan to march into that land alone and make a difference, so what was she plotting? 

He’d warn Nori, Bofur, and Finnin to keep watch. He hoped to Mahal she intended to work out a plan before presenting it to the rest of them, that she would not sneak off alone. 

The thought of it pained him. _Lassie, lassie, you still do not understand love._

So. On the morrow, he’d seek out friends and family. If Saldís thought she could depart unnoticed and unmissed, she had another thing coming. 

And if she did have to leave, she wouldn’t be doing so alone.

OoOoOo

__  
**2 December TA 3017  
Thorin’s Hall**

_The Dunedain._

For weeks, her mind had been churning over the matter of the Black Númenóreans and Mordor without success, determined to find some way to turn the tide. There had to be something she could do. She could not accept otherwise.

As soon as thought of her mother’s kin, the Rangers of the North, occurred to her, every part of her seized upon it. The Black Númenóreans avoided the Dunedain lands for fear of detection. Blood called to blood, and the Duumvirate was not willing to risk any of the Rangers suspecting that tales of the Black Númenóreans’ demise were grossly exaggerated. 

Was it possible her mother’s people could not only stand against the Black Númenóreans but disrupt their plans? _They could pass for Black Númenóreans. Infiltrate their ranks as none of the Khazâd could._

She froze in place. The idea was sheer genius. It would work. By Durin, it would work.

So complete was her distraction that she failed to respond to the broadsword swinging towards her belly. She did, however, notice when she was kicked out of harm’s way. A big war ax clashed with the sword, and two blue eyes glared over one shoulder in absolute fury. The black-haired warrior she’d been dueling backed away instantly, but Finnin advanced on her, his body taut as a strung bow.

“What was that?” he demanded.

Saldís felt every eye in the area coalesce upon her. From beyond Finnin, she saw Finnur hurry onto the platform, the younger dwarf’s face full of concern. 

But then, Finnin filled her field of vision, the blond’s nostrils flared, his expression thunderous. Contrarily, amusement touched her. She had been distracted in combat. _She._ And instead of being appropriately mortified, it was all she could do not to snicker. 

“I got distracted,” she admitted, her voice uncommonly rich with surprise and humor.

A thick finger stabbed at her, the first hairy knuckle so close she could barely bring it into focus. “You don’t get distracted,” he fumed. 

“No, I don’t,” she agreed, still in high-humor.

His finger slowly retracted. Blue eyes scrutinized her closely. “This, Dushin-Mizim? This is what it takes for you to smile?” he huffed, a glimmer of something appearing in his eyes. An instant later, warm lips pressed to hers.

Shock barely touched her before rage burst all bonds. Images of the Breeder’s Den flashed through her mind. Coherence fled in the face of a fury she’d felt only once before. 

Saldís lashed out uncontrollably, blood and death her intention.


	20. A Shaking

Bifur and Nori glowered at one another over a checkered battlefield of carved stone game pieces arrayed upon the table, matching frowns upon their faces when the front door opened. Bifur delayed in lifting his head—Nori was using a new tactic, and by Durin, Bifur would not let his wily opponent hoodwink him again. Why had the ex-thief moved his Miner? 

‘Twas a trap. His gut was sure of it.

A kick beneath the table, a significant and worried look from Nori, and the game of _Hoarded Treasure_ was abandoned. Bifur twisted in his seat, a cold knot of unease forming in his belly to witness the blank expression upon his daughter’s pale face.

“Saldís?” he asked, pushing back his seat to rise. She turned in his direction, but her gaze never connected. His worry sharpened. 

“I may have killed Finnin,” she said in a tight voice. 

“May have?” Nori asked, ending on a high note.

Her flinch was so brief, Bifur almost missed it. By Mahal, what had happened? Her throat convulsed, and her jaw clenched. “I don’t really recall,” she said. Avoiding their eyes, she strode into her room and closed the door behind her. Firmly.

Bifur turned to Nori. “Umral,” he began.

“Ye don’t have to ask. I’ll find out.” Nori rushed from the room. 

The silence permeating the main room turned suffocating. To picture Finnin slain… What could have happened? And why did Saldís not remember? With a bracing inhale and a short prayer— _Mahal, let the lad live_ —Bifur went to find out. 

Cracking open the door, he found his lass pacing at the foot of her bed. No longer blank, her face was lined with strain. 

“What happened, Gêdul?” he asked carefully as he stepped into the room. 

Her fingers flexed as she walked, agitated, sharp motions. “I was sparring with Albin. He’s one of the younger warriors. I was distracted.”

Distracted? That did not sound like his daughter. “Saldís, look at me.” He waited until her eyes met his. “Why would you harm Finnin?”

She spun away with a wordless growl. Then Saldís whirled back towards him, eyes glittering with betrayal, fury, and confusion. “He kissed me,” she rasped. Then louder, “He _kissed me.”_

_Eh?_ Bifur blinked. He’d not seen that coming. A strange turn of events, but nothing that should have resulted in violence.

“How could he do that to me, Adâd? I trusted him!” Her pacing resumed, its tenor frenetic. Her hands clenched and released spasmodically. The dark fury that appeared on her face was chillingly familiar. By Durin, what would it take to exorcise it from his daughter? 

‘Twas why she didn’t remember. Bifur was certain of it. The knot in his belly twisted as he remembered Saldís’s tale of the day she’d first killed innocents. 

“Saldís,” he tried.

The dam burst. “I am no Breeder,” she spat. “I will _never_ be used that way.” She picked up a vase and hurled it at the wall. It smashed into pieces, but even that did not recall her to herself. She looked ready to destroy everything around her. “I hate men,” she howled. “I _hate them!”_

OoOoOo

Nori burst into the Halls of War at full tilt. A quick scan revealed a cluster of dwarrow huddled around a supine blond-haired dwarf upon one of the sparring platforms. Nori shoved his way there, little caring for the affronted objections voiced in his wake.

He leaped onto the platform. “Does he live?” he demanded of the raven-haired dwarrowdam sporting a healer’s braid within her silky beard. 

The lass barely glanced his way. “Badly concussed,” she said in a clipped voice.

The ex-thief sagged with relief. ‘Twas not wondrous news, but it was not the tragedy he’d feared, either. Playing with his dagger, Nori’s attention next turned to the younger red-head lurking close by the fallen warrior’s side. “Finnur?”

The shorter dwarf ran a hand across the top of his head, then dropped his hand with a gusty exhale. “I don’t know what happened. I witnessed it all—by my beard, I did—but I can make no sense of it.” A mutter from the onlookers had Finnur bristling at the crowd. “Aye, and I heard you. Saldís is no more unstable than you are, Northin. Say that again, and my ax will be lodged—”

“Finnur,” Nori interrupted sharply. 

The young dwarf reluctantly turned back to Nori, his face red and his jaw tight. With a last glare tossed back towards the speaker, Finnur said, “Saldís was sparring as she always does, dancing about Albin with that agility of hers.” A brief flash of a smug smile. “Enough to make him dizzy, I warrant. Then she seemed to freeze. Like a statue, she was, for a moment.” 

A black-haired lad with a truly impressive beard—Albin, Nori decided—grunted his agreement. 

Finnur continued, “Finnin intervened to keep her from being sliced in two. When Saldís returned to herself, she seemed to find the whole matter amusing.” 

“That’s out of character,” Nori said more to himself than the other dwarf.

“Aye, that’s what I thought. Finnin, too.” The lad’s words stalled. Was that embarrassment Nori saw? 

“Spit it out, lad.”

“Yes, out with it.” At Dwalin’s rumble, Nori glanced behind him to see both Dwalin and Lady Dís approaching. The Lord of Thorin’s Hall stomped closer to Finnin, eyes upon the fallen warrior. 

If anything, Finnur looked all the more uncomfortable with Dwalin’s arrival. “Well, see, it’s like this,” Finnur said, clearing his throat and shifting upon his feet.

Dwalin growled.

Finnur rushed to say, “He kissed her, see? Just a wee peck. But as soon as it happened, her face changed. The lass said something about Breeders, then walloped him in the head hard enough to crack his skull. She looked ready to skewer him, too, but before she could strike, something halted her.”

Albin interjected, “’twas you, Finnur. Saw your face, she did, and blanched.”

Nori’s mind latched onto the important bit. Breeders. A new suspicion reared its head, and his temper adopted a dangerous edge. By Durin and all the dwarf fathers—could it really be his niece had never witnessed wooing and loving played out between a male and a maid? _Breeder,_ he spat to himself. It answered…well, quite a bit, actually. Saldís seemed to crave hugs and touches from her sire and family, but she made it known with her lethal scowl that others had best keep their hands to themselves. 

Dís drew nearer. “She doesn’t understand, does she?” 

Nori shook his head. His shoulders bunched up tight, and the fist he had around his dagger was enough to warp a lesser blade’s hilt out of shape. A litany of expletives erupted from him, each one carefully enunciated and spat beneath his breath. 

For once, no one argued his choice of words.

Dís’s voice turned brisk. “This is not a subject for here.” To the healer, the princess said, “Goira, will our warrior be well?”

The raven-haired healer leaned back upon her heels. “No permanent damage,” she declared, much to Nori’s relief. The lad did not deserve to die for fancying a lass. That he’d kissed Nori’s niece…Well, the lad had some nerve doing so before speaking with _him._

_Aye, and Bifur,_ he admitted. He’d half a mind to slap the dwarf upside the head himself for his temerity. After it was healed. 

“Can he be moved?” Dwalin asked gruffly.

Goira nodded. “Carefully. He’ll have quite the headache when he rouses, but I’ll send herbs home with his brother to lessen the pain.”

Much of the crowd dispersed after Finnin was carried home by his brother and another warrior. Nori, Dwalin and Dís left the platform, but before Nori could exit the cavern, Dís caught his sleeve. “I know you will tell Bifur what happened,” she said.

Nori nodded. _And then some._

“Inform him not to broach this subject with her. I’ll do so tomorrow.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the lady if she was sure, but the look in Dís’s eye halted him. He knew that look well from traveling with Thorin. Only a fool gainsaid a Durin sporting that expression. That, Nori hadn’t been for many a decade.

With a bow, Nori left to speak to Bifur.

OoOoOo

That night, Bifur followed his daughter as she snuck from their home. ‘Twas a relief when her path led not towards the gates but the Halls of War. The cavern was empty so late at night, but Saldís set her hand lantern down upon the floor, wrestled a target dummy’s support into the small hole bored into the floor for just that purpose, and proceed to pummel it with single-minded determination.

Her bare fists smashed into it with enough force to rock the dummy, and in the low light, Bifur grieved to find his daughter’s face twisted with the inner demons tormenting her. In no time at all, she was dripping with sweat, her breaths labored, but his Saldís did not relent one bit. 

It was the rage again. Always, she reacted with fury at any threat, and in her mind, Finnin’s ill-chosen display of interest was the worst kind of threat, something none of them had anticipated. 

_We should have, Gêdul,_ he thought, watching her. With tales of Breeders and life among the Black Númenóreans? Aye, they really should have anticipated how damaged her view of relations between the genders would be. 

Time and again, Bifur’s lips had parted with reassurances for his daughter, and each time, he’d swallowed them. Mahal, what if Finnin’s mistake had damaged Saldís’s trust in dwarves? She could not believe the Khazâd a celibate people, not with dwarflings among them. Or had she refused to think on the matter? 

He rubbed his face. Dís was right. Saldís needed to hear the truth of things from another female. His amâd would have been an option, but as soon as he considered it, Bifur dismissed the notion. Suffia was no warrior. Saldís needed to hear from a female able to destroy a male if threatened. Too, what if Saldís disbelieved her ugmil’amad? What damage would it do to Saldís’s view of his adâd? 

Nay, Dís had the right of it. ‘Twas better he leave the matter in her capable hands. 

With back to the wall, he quietly slid to a seat. He’d keep watch to ensure his daughter did herself no harm. In his heart of hearts, he knew that if Finnin had not kissed her, this would have arisen at some point. Such deep trauma as she was evincing could never have remained dormant. Mayhap ‘twas better to come out now, but Bifur still hated to see the pain it brought her.

_What did they do to you, my Saldís?_ Was there not a shred of innocence left to her? He dared not let the image he feared the most materialize in his mind, for he’d not be able to keep the lid on his fury if he did. Had some accursed male force himself on his lassie? _It could not have been when she was grown,_ a wee part of him noted. He’d seen enough to know most men would not survive attempting such an assault on his adult daughter. But as a child…

Bifur’s fist slammed into the floor hard enough to send painful reverberations ricocheting through his flesh. Then he took a deep breath, fighting for calm. The past could not be altered. The important matter now was his daughter and her current well-being. If she’d learned rape a common thing in her formative years, it was not going to be easy to convince her there were males who’d sooner slit their own throats than touch a female in violence.

With each new revelation, he hated the Black Númenóreans more. _Kimilzor._ The name was a curse upon his tongue. It had been etched upon his memory the instant he’d learned Kimilzor was the one who’d stolen Saldís from him. That the cur had sired Saldís only made the man’s crimes more despicable. 

A father should protect his children. Sacrifice all for their well-being. 

Never, never destroy them.

OoOoOo

The sun rose, and the network of mirrors throughout Thorin’s Hall flared to life, once more flooding the mountain’s inner passages and halls with sunlight. Saldís idly noted the transition of night to day as the room around her brightened. Her body, leadened by a night of strenuous exertion, was washed and clad in soft, Durin blue set of drawstring pants and button-up tunic. A gift from Dori.

The outfit was horribly impractical, more a fabric hug than true clothing, but Saldís didn’t care. She’d adored it the first time she’d fingered its softness. It never failed to imbue a sense of family. 

After the night she’d had, she’d needed it. 

Adâd sat smoking his pipe in the matching chair opposite her, the hearth between them. The quiet popping of burning wood was a soothing backdrop untainted by words of demand or recrimination. 

He’d kept watch all night. Despite all the reasons he should have left her, the stubborn dwarf remained by her side. _By my soul, I don’t deserve him._

Saldís sighed quietly. The rage that had ridden her so hard had burned itself out…for the moment. Shock had left the world around her feeling surreal, and that disturbing sensation had not entirely fled. _What did you think, that dwarves spring up from the ground full grown?_ Having the reality of their sexuality literally shoved into her face had left her reeling.

Saldís did not want to imagine them having anything in common with the Black Númenóreans, and a part of her knew they were different. Her sire would never treat a woman as she’d seen done to those in the Breeder’s Den. 

Would he? 

Sour anxiety nibbled at the feeling of safety she’d come to enjoy in these Halls. It lied. She _knew_ it lied. Yet it festered at the edges of her awareness like maggots on rotting meat, urging her to don arms and blockade her heart and soul away as she’d done in Caeldor. 

_Orc spit._ Finnin’s act had thrust her into her oldest nightmare without warning. She hadn’t been prepared, blast it all. What she’d expected and girded herself against in Caeldor had seemed an impossibility here. 

Valar be cursed, what had she _done?_ Try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything of what had transpired between the touch of Finnin’s lips on hers and the sight of Adâd’s worried face. 

_Finnin lies dead,_ fear accused. _By your hand._ Just like the family she’d slain the last time she’d lost control. Her heart gave a pained spasm. 

Curse his beard, she’d trusted that dwarf. What had he been thinking? Why would he think her receptive to such treatment? 

The lazily burbling cauldron of anger in her belly burped in warning. It would once more boil to overflowing if she continued down that line of thought. She’d asked such questions all night, yet she remained without answer. 

A soft rap on the front door broke the silence and derailed the endless loop of her thoughts. _Dwalin,_ she thought. She’d anticipated this since her rage had cooled sufficiently to allow coherent thought. There were bound to be reprisals for her actions. 

She mentally girded herself, straightening in her chair. 

Bifur grunted and rose to his sock-covered feet. “’Tis Lady Dís,” he said before striding to the door. With hand on the door latch, he glanced back over one shoulder. “She sent word that she’d be by to speak with you.”

Not Dwalin, but Dís. Whether that heralded good or ill was yet to be seen, but Saldís was relieved nonetheless. She uncoiled her body from the chair’s plush confines and stood. Bifur opened the door. 

With a perfunctory nod, Dís entered wearing a crimson woolen gown of fine quality coupled with a black and red bodice laced across her chest. Dís’s long black hair hung loose about her shoulders, and a simple circlet adorned her brow. 

Durin blue eyes latched onto Saldís almost immediately. 

“My lady,” Saldís said cautiously, her knees dipping into the barest of curtsies. 

Dís touched Bifur’s arm, a gentle smile gracing her lips. Though she said nothing, a message passed between the two, one which resulted in Bifur exhaling gustily in relief. To Saldís, the dwarrowdam said, “Dress. Collect a coat. You will walk with me as I do my rounds.”

Her…rounds? Saldís’s forehead wrinkled, and her gaze strayed to her adâd in search of answers. His lift of the chin prodded her to do as ordered.

A handful of minutes later, Saldís reemerged from her room dressed in trousers, linen tunic and close-fitting leather vest, each in varying shades of brown. Atop it all, she wore a coffee colored wool coat.

Dís nodded briskly and ushered the both of them out Bifur’s front door. Together, the two strolled down towering, arched passages seemingly at random. Twice, they passed dwarves going about their business, though this early, the interior streets were largely empty. Thorin’s Hall had not yet fully awakened. 

Saldís waited for the inquisition to begin. Frustration foamed through her veins, but she knew it foolish. Whatever Dís decreed, would it not be fair? 

It was as they stepped onto a byway Saldís had not hitherto explored that Dís broke the silence. “I ask myself,” the dwarrowdam said softly, eyes facing forward. “How the damage done to you and the other children in that wretched land could be worse. And each time, I discover it is. Those people, Saldís, should be exterminated.” By the end, Dís’s voice dripped with venom.

It surprised Saldís. Where was the anger for what she’d done? Where were the hard questions? 

Dís’s voice turned business-like. “Tell me. What do you remember of the events yesterday?”

Had Bifur not shared…? But not, he wouldn’t. Not something so private. Shoving hands into the warm pockets of her coat, Saldís confessed with forced calm, “Nothing.”

Dís’s lips twitched downward. “I thought not.” Brilliant blue eyes slid Saldís’s way. “We are both adults here, Saldís. Both females. It is plain that Finnin’s kiss enraged you.” Saldís stiffened, her muscles clamping around her skeleton until her steps felt wooden, but Dís granted no leniency. “Tell me why.”

Why? Saldís’s steps halted altogether. Dís’s steps continued two more paces before the dam turned to face her. Was it not obvious? The burbling cauldron returned to a low boil. Saldís raked one hand through her tresses. “Am I to be exiled?” she asked abruptly.

OoOoOo

Dís watched the woman closely as she answered, “No.”

Saldís’s relief was not loudly proclaimed upon her face, but tension drained from her frame. _A bit early, Gêdul._ Though she sympathized with the woman, Dís could not let her off the hook quite so easily. Finnin lived, aye, but the outcome could have been much different, by all accounts, had Finnur’s presence not inexplicably reined in Saldís’s fury. 

That loss of control worried her. She needed Saldís to trust them, by Durin, and Dís knew Saldís had been far along the path to just that outcome when this happened. Not Finnin’s fault, but Dís still intended to ask the dwarf what he’d been thinking. 

A wry addendum: _Or if._ For decades, Dís had hoped the stubborn male would welcome a female into his affections. His timing… Well, ‘twas just like a male dwarf to choose the most _in_ opportune moment. Obstinate, the lot of them. 

Saldís’s past was a troubled one. Had the warrior lost sight of that? 

“Why did it disturb you so?” Dís demanded in a low voice. 

“Why wouldn’t it?” Saldís hissed in return. “What woman would wish to be _used?”_

Used. Dís was tempted to try out some of Nori’s more colorful epithets. “Not used. Loved.”

The scoffing sound that broke through the woman’s lips was bitter, indeed. 

By Durin, Dís vowed to get to the root of it. She eyed their surroundings. More dwarves filled the streets with each passing minute, beginning their day. _Not here._ With an abrupt bob of the head, Dís chose her course. “Come.”

OoOoOo

Saldís stalked at Dís’s side, emotions roiling.

Why had it disturbed her? _Why?_ Was the dwarrowdam addled? Did she perhaps enjoy the pain and shame that came with the bedding?

Saldís concluded she would never understand dwarves. 

The dam led her to the Royal Wing. Choosing two nondescript doors at the end of one hallway, she thrust them open. To Saldís’s surprise, she found herself on a balcony. Frigid winter air seared her nostrils with cold, but Saldís tilted her head back, basking in the sheer joy of true sunlight caressing her face. 

At a shuffling sound, she directed her attention from the sky and found Dís clearing snow from a space on the stone balcony. Once satisfied, the princess perched one hip upon the surface as blithely as if a deadly drop was not scant inches to one side. 

Saldís edged closer to the rail to eye the drop. Her lips formed a silent whistle. 

Valkthor, she thought with dark relish, would soil himself. The wretch had ever suffered from a fear of heights. He thought it concealed, but there was little Saldís did not know about the foul _muzm._

An unexpected breeze brought her hands to her arms. She chafed the sleeves of her jacket to ward off the icy bite. “Why are we here?” she asked abruptly.

“Privacy,” Dís said, brushing another section of railing clean of snow and patting it. “Sit. It’s past time we had a chat.”

OoOoOo

Thorin would hoot to hear her label what she had in mind a chat, Dís thought with an inward smirk. “You are like a hound with its jaws locked around its prey at times, Namad,” he’d declared on more than one occasion. In her youth, she’d have denied the accusation with her last breath. Now, she took pride in it.

She smiled at Saldís.

Saldís snorted. “You look like the cat with its mouth full of canary,” she huffed. “If you were aiming for reassuring, you should drop the feral edge.”

Dís’s smile curved into the smuggest of grins. “That smile, I’ll have you know, works quite well on the males.” Fíli and Kíli especially had learned to run when their amâd wore that expression. 

The woman’s brow pursed. _Anger,_ Dís decided. _And a good dollop of exhaustion._ Saldís hadn’t earned those bruises underscoring each eye by sleeping well this night. 

Saldís exhaled and slumped onto the rail beside her. Perhaps ‘twas time to relieve the woman of one burden. “Finnin lives,” Dís said.

Saldís jerked. Her head whipped around.

“Aye, I speak the truth. He’ll bear a knot on that dense skull of his for days to come, but he was not slain.”

Was that relief Dís spied? Mayhap. But it was all but buried under the avalanche of anger filling Saldís’s face. _Enough._ “What is it you imagine occurs between males and females during bedding, Saldís?”

If it was possible for a glare to drop the temperature, all of the Blue Mountains would be encased in ice for years to come, Dís thought with a spurt of humor. “Your dam is not here,” Dís said, kind for all her abruptness. “And your ugmil’amad is no warrior. Suffia’s strength is in her gentle heart, not the might of her sword arm. So I ask you plain. Do you believe I would tolerate our males touching _any_ dwarrowmaid with violence? Do you believe I would consent to some male forcing himself upon me not just once but many times?”

The girl’s face looked encased in stone, it turned so rigid. Only her eyes showed life, blazing like molten mithril.

“I had two sons, if you will but remember.” The fingers of Dís’s right hand tapped out a pattern on the cold banister. 

“I remember.” 

A short look. “There is more to begetting than force and shame.”

Saldís surged to her feet, hands fists. “Don’t tell me what there is. I saw it.”

_Mahal and all the Valar._ She hid her relief. _Saw_ it. Not experienced it. Oh, aye, the lass had been wounded by what she’d seen, that was plain, but at least Dís would not have to hide knowledge of worse from the woman’s fretting sire. “Oh?”

Saldís tossed a flat-lipped smile her way as she paced along the length of the snow-dusted balcony. “The threat of what would happen to the girl Novices was much more effective if we witnessed it firsthand.”

Anger ignited, one deep and boundless. Given what Saldís had told them about the poor women stolen from southern Gondor, Dís shuddered inside. Those evil men had forced the girl-children—their own _daughters_ —to watch as their dams were raped? By Durin, she hadn’t not believe that level of evil possible outside orcs. There could be but one purpose for such a vile act: control. Traumatize the child when young, and that fear would rule her the rest of her days.

_Not if I have aught to say about it._ “How old were you?” Dís asked, testing the theory. 

“Eleven,” Saldís said in a matter-of-fact voice. 

_Eleven._ If Dís told any of the males waiting for answers about this, she’d have a large number armed and marching south before Nori could finish belting out a verse of that wretched song, _Blunt the Knives,_ she’d heard from the ex-thief and others of the Company a handful of times. To this day, the poor Baggins fellow had Dís’s deepest sympathies. 

She was unable to keep the anger from her voice as she responded. “You are a smart woman, Saldís. You’ve enough life experience to squirrel out the truth.” Dís arched one brow as Saldís’s anger melted away. She was listening, thank the Valar. “Why would they expose young ones to such a thing?”

Saldís’s lips parted with an automatic response, but the woman then paused. Her chin dipped slightly and a new anger began to build. Never did those gray eyes leave Dís’s. The lass then broke into a spate of coarse language she’d doubtless learned from Nori. Disjointed, all of it, but then, the lass had just learned how thoroughly she’d been manipulated. 

_Dori would have heart palpitations to hear her._ Too easily imagined. _Or murder his brother._

Saldís’s stomps came to a halt. “To control us,” Saldis growled. 

“Aye.”

Saldís whirled to the banister and gripped it with enough pressure that Dís feared the stone might well crack. Then the grip loosened, and her head dangled low. 

“You had no defense,” Dís said, not without compassion. 

“I should have realized,” Saldís said. Her head lifted. “So many lies. Nothing I believed was true. _Nothing.”_ She pushed back from the rail. Once again she paced, each step fraught with agitation and fury. 

“Shall I tell you the truth of it?” Dís asked.

Saldís halted as if she’d run into a wall. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “I saw it, my lady.”

“Dís,” Dís corrected. “We ladies must stick together.”

The shadow of a smile ghosted across Saldís’s lips. “Male dwarrow _are_ stubborn.”

Was that an attempt to share humor? Aye, Dís crowed to herself. The girl’s world had been rocked, but by the seven dwarf fathers, she recovered. “A good thing we are more so.”

A barked laugh escaped the taller woman. She plopped down beside Dís once more. “We’d have to be, to win any arguments,” she said dryly.

_Aye to that._ “You never beheld courting, did you,” Dís said, the words a statement, for there was no doubt in her mind.

Saldís chafed her legs with her palms. “How could I?” she asked bitterly. A hard sideways look. “You still have not convinced me it’s anything a sane woman would want.”

Dís blinked. “I believe I’ve been insulted,” she said, chuckling. The woman’s head reared up as if she’d not realized what she’d done. Dís waved one hand, halting any apology. “I met my Vili when I was sixty-three,” Dís began.

OoOoOo

Saldís’s mind churned in absolute chaos. Betrayal. She expected it from her blood kin, but she’d never suspected…

 _I’ll make you pay,_ she promised them. 

Her skin prickled, and her stomach turned over. The Black Númenóreans perverted everything they touched. In that, they were truly the lesser mirrors of their lord. 

Saldís tried to ignore the remembered images of the Den as Dís continued in a warm voice, “It was quite the scandal, a lass of the line of Durin making much over a simple warrior of average skill almost twice her age.” 

Saldís did not respond when the dam threw an impish smile her way. The surreal shifting beneath her feet did not permit anything so light. 

Blue eyes measured her response before continuing, “I would not be deterred. Followed him about, I did, for over twelve years.”

Dís sounded proud. A more outlandish thing, Saldís could not imagine. “Why?” 

Dís’s head tilted to one side. “Because I dearly loved the strength of his chest and legs,” Dís said with gleaming eyes. “By Mahal, he was such a sight when on the sparring grounds, his muscles glistening with sweat and his face dark with determination.” 

Saldís’s brows climbed high.

Dís smirked. “Aye, he was a sight, my Vili. Such a smile he had, too. My mate was not the most handsome of dwarves. Nor was he the most skilled. But…ah…did I love that dwarf.” Dís nudged Saldís’s side with her own. “There was no other whose company I enjoyed more, none who made the sun shine so brightly. All it took was sound of his voice, and my spirits lifted to heights no bird could match.”

It was as if the dwarrowdam spoke a foreign language. Made the sun shine brightly? Lifting spirits?

Dís’s voice turned dreamy. _Dreamy!_ There was no other word for it. “When that dwarf finally admitted his feelings to me, his kiss melted my very bones. He was headier than any ale you care to put name to, and that is Durin’s truth.” Dís’s smile turned naughty. “The marriage bed is a wondrous thing. If we of the Khazâd had a man’s fecundity, my Vili and I would have had enough dwarflings to fill a company of our own.”

A reluctant snort escaped Saldís.

“That’s better,” Dís said. “Begetting my sons was a joyous and loving endeavor, Saldís.” The dwarrowdam’s expression dipped towards sadness. “Finnin meant you no insult. Quite the contrary.” 

Saldís tried to wrap her mind around that, to view the events of the day before with new eyes. _By Kimilzor’s black heart._ Saldís steeled herself. Forced herself to ask the question that had burned through her gut since Finnin’s…kiss. “Do dwarves ever…” She growled to herself at her weakling hesitation to ask a simple question. All but spitting it out, she asked, “In your history, have none ever forced a female?”

Dís shot her a shrewd look. “We are not a perfect people. But any who attempted force on a dam would be shorn from crown to toes and expelled with a brand upon him, as naked as a newborn babe. He would be named a Petty Dwarf, one without House or home. We do not tolerate rape.”

Saldís absently acknowledged the words with a jerky dip of the head. 

“I’ve said enough,” Dís said briskly, rising to her feet. “Words will not tell the tale alone.”

_What?_ Saldís intended to ask, but the princess crooked one finger and disappeared inside the mountain. Saldís slowly followed. 

What next transpired was an assault, pure and simple. Not on her body—nothing so easily defended against—but her preconceptions. Dís led her from home to home as the princess “did her rounds”, checking upon many of the settlement’s families. To her horror, Saldís found herself in the homes of a host of couples…and their rambunctious and overly curious dwarflings. 

To say the sights of the day were illuminating would be an understatement. Despite being horribly uncomfortable, Saldís couldn’t avoid seeing what Dís intended. She saw…and she learned. Couples among the Khazâd treated one another with gruff affection, often teasing but always loving. The wives… It was hard to understand, but they seemed to crave their mates’ touches. 

No fear. No disgust or shame.

Saldís lasted only half way through Dís’s circuit. Then her feet refused to go any farther. _Lies,_ an inner voice chanted. _Lies, lies, lieslieslies._ Everything she’d believed. Everything that had molded her.

“Go home, lass,” Dís said. When Saldís lifted her head, Durin blue eyes offered understanding. “Get some rest and think on what you’ve witnessed this day.”

Saldís drew herself tall. With utmost dignity and heartfelt sincerity, she said, “Thank you, my lady.”

OoOoOo

Bifur had cleaned his home until it gleamed, and still his daughter had not returned. He tossed the cleaning rag into the laundry bin, frowning. _I’ve become Dori,_ he groused to himself, eyeing the place. He didn’t remember it ever being so immaculate.

His dam would be proud, he thought with dry humor. 

By Durin, what was taking so long? A chat, Dís had said. 

With a hiss of impatience, he swept the main room with another glance. Mayhap there was something he had missed. Dust hidden on the mantel. A scuff mark on the floor. Anything. 

‘Twas then that the door creaked open, and at last, there was his daughter. Saldís looked wrung out to his mind, and that was no exaggeration. _Hollowed out,_ he corrected as he hurried to slide an arm around her waist. 

“I’m alright,” she said, leaning into the embrace and gifting him with a tired smile. It fled as fast as it had been bestowed. “Tired.”

He escorted her not to her preferred chair but the couch. As soon as he had her seated, he claimed the other spot and her hands. 

“I’m not going to break,” she grumbled half-heartedly. Her gentle nudge of the shoulder eased any sting from the words. 

_Alright, Gêdul? Nay, not that._ She appeared wan and conflicted. 

Bifur tucked her close to his side, one arm around her, and nudged her head to his. Though his lass never said as much, ‘twas plain to him that she relished such contact. He suspected her life had been barren of such affection. She’d never admit it, but she craved the simple comfort a hug could bring. 

“You’re yet my child,” he rumbled into her hair. “No matter your age.”

He felt her smile. 

In an altogether different voice, Bifur broached, “Do you have questions for me?” 

By the manner in which she seized up, that was a vehement nay. With his free hand, he brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Aye, well I have questions for you.”

Though she was spent, Bifur insisted, drawing out the details of all she’d beheld that bleak day when her innocence had been stolen from her. 

By Mahal, each time Bifur thought his anger could climb no higher, further revelations about those accursed Black Númenóreans proved him wrong. He hid his own measure of fury behind a calm facade, intent upon drawing the poison out from her memories. 

At the end, his kissed her brow, his heart weeping for his daughter. 

“I don’t wish to be courted,” she said at last in a low voice. “Whatever it is you believe possible between males and females, Adâd, I’m not capable of it.”

There went his fury again, stoked higher. _Yer a dead man,_ he thought to the absent Kimilzor. _And I’ll be the dwarf to see it done._

Bifur squeezed his lassie tight. He didn’t bother to convince her otherwise. Nay, Saldís was not ready to hear of it. Mayhap she was correct. Could anyone heal so much? 

Only time would tell. Either way, she’d be surrounded by loved ones. She’d never again be alone. Of that, Bifur was confident.


	21. Little Steps

In the days that followed, Saldís avoided speaking about Finnin, or males and females and what did or did not happen between them. What she’d learned haunted her. Saldís suspected she owed Finnin an apology, but she could not direct her feet to approach him. Some horrible malady seized control of her, turning her overnight into a veritable rabbit. Sight of either of the brothers, elder or younger, drove her into retreat. 

She’d lost control. Anger had gotten the best of her, and Finnin could well have died. Nori had reported that it was the sight of Finnur that had stayed her hand, but without remembering, she was unsure if that was so. She _did_ remember how she’d equated the little girl and boy she’d murdered so long ago to herself and Finnur. Could that be why Finnur’s presence had halted her? 

By all the orcs in Mordor, she just didn’t know. On one point alone was she convinced: she’d sooner face a Balrog without weapon or armor than deal with Finnin, romance, and all Dís had revealed. 

_Some Weapon you are,_ she sneered to herself. She was ninety years old, by Durin. A grown woman should not hide! Especially from truths, no matter how hard. 

But instead of dealing with all she’d learned, she raged with fresh humiliation at just how thoroughly she’d been manipulated. For _decades._ She had been led about like a donkey on a tether, and she burned to know it.

Sauron and the Black Númenóreans would pay, Saldís vowed. She wanted them to suffer as she had. For what they’d done to her and Adâd. For what they still did to the women in the Den and the children bred from them. 

Her mind returned to the flash of insight that had instigated Finnin’s kiss. The Dunedain could pass for Black Númenóreans. The Rangers of Ithilien, too, most likely, but they were half a continent away. In her mind, the picture took shape: men of the north and herself dressed in traditional Black Númenórean war garb, infiltrating Tovennen itself. 

Saldís would be recognized if she showed her face.

But not so the Rangers. 

_Disrupt communications and supplies. Turn House against House._ Destroy them from within.

It would work if done with a deft hand. In their efforts to assure every Weapon and Arcanist was loyal to the Six Lords and House alone, the Lords and Hands had destroyed any hope of allegiance among the ranks. Ties between Weapons and Arcanists serving together were tenuous at best as evidenced by how quickly Valkthor had sway their team against her. She, who’d once been a popular commander.

It was a weakness. One she’d be only too happy to exploit. 

The idea fleshed itself out in her mind within hours, not days or weeks. The Black Númenóreans were powerful, yes, and wily. But they were also blinded by their arrogance. She knew from experience—they would never anticipate any to locate and strike Caeldor, especially if the war was beginning. Should that be the case, their focus would be on external, distant targets and not their own backyard.

Was the war beginning? Instinct cried its affirmation, for what else explained their absence here? But even if it were not so, Mordor’s war machines had to be dealt with and the evil sons of Numenor eradicated. 

Ah, but to seek men as allies? Saldís harbored little hope that her mother’s people would be worthy of trust. Her flesh crawled to imagine setting off on such a mission with only _them_ at her back. What she was willing to believe of the Khazâd, she could not extend to men. 

Would the Dunedain, the ragtag remnant of the Line of Kings, even be up to such an endeavor? Would they believe her if she appealed to them? Or be willing to assist? The mission was almost guaranteed to be a one-way trip. Death lay at its end. 

Saldís no longer feared such a fate. The weight of guilt from her deeds said she owed this to the world. 

But the men might care very much. 

As Saldís sparred with a slew of Lord Dwalin’s warriors in the subsequent days, days blessedly Finnin-free once the dwarf stopped trying to corner her to talk, her decision hardened.

She had to find the Dunedain. From the Duumvirate’s prohibition to venture into the Rangers’ lands for fear of discovery, she knew them to be situated somewhere in the North Downs. Where, none could say. What they did know was that the Dunedain honored the promise made by the kings of men long ago to guard the borders of the land of the halflings, the Shire. 

Saldís would pack lightly and depart the next day. It was past time to visit the Shire in search of her long lost relatives.

OoOoOo

Finnin’s eyes bugged out of his skull to witness two slender legs and small feet vanishing into the air duct located in the stone ceiling a handful of yards before him. A stool lay on its side, doubtless kicked by one flailing leg. Given the slim waist and shapely posterior he glimpsed before the person disappeared into the duct, there was no doubt in his mind who it was wiggling through the hall’s airways.

His blue eyes narrowed, and a tic tugged upon the skin beneath his left eye. He’d heard all about the Breeders’ Den that had so warped Saldís’s view of things from Dori. Finnin had spent long hours mulling over the matter, and he’d decided his course. He’d not force unwanted attentions upon any female, but he refused to leave an emotional wound to bleed if he could do aught to bring healing. 

Saldís needed to learn to trust those outside her family, and that was that. To his mind, it was far too soon to be giving up on her. Already, she’d made great strides towards wholeness. 

This was a setback. Nothing more. 

What Finnin had not expected, however, was for Saldís to flee. With fists on hips, he prowled forward on silent feet until he stood beneath the duct. He snorted to himself. Truly, Saldís was likely the only adult within the settlement capable of navigating those passages. They’d been hewn from solid stone by eager dwarflings long ago, many using that project upon which to cut their teeth in masonry. 

Finnin’s hand rubbed across his bearded jaw. With a nod, he decided. If she thought to sneak from their halls, she had another thing coming. He’d let her gain some distance before dragging her back. There were many words he wished to say, and the chance at privacy was something he wouldn’t willingly forsake. This time, there would be no avoiding him.

Pivoting upon one foot, he jogged back to his chambers to collect more weapons. Aye, to defend himself against the object of his affections primarily, but also her kin. If any Black Númenóreans deigned to make an appearance, he’d be ready. 

No one was going to harm Saldís while he breathed. 

No one.

OoOoOo

Finnin’s anger waned but little as he trailed Saldís through snowdrifts and between trees. She’d shaved a decade off his life. He’d wondered how she’d planned to exit the air duct, and he’d pretty much assumed she had rope upon her. She was an enterprising lass, so he was certain she was prepared for a safe egress.

What he’d never dreamed was that she’d simply leap from the vent into the boughs of the closest pine, hurling herself through the air as if she believed herself a bird. By Durin’s iron beard! Why, the tree had been a good six feet away and shorter by eight. She could have broken her neck! That she’d alighted with ease impressed him—he’d admit to that—but the _risk._ She’d near slain him on the spot with that stunt. 

That she’d ventured off without proper winter attire had not helped soothe his temper, either. What had she been thinking? No heavy coat, no thick boots. Spying the way she shivered just angered him all over again. Did the woman turn around until better prepared? Nay! She was as mule-headed as…as… 

_As myself,_ he admitted with a gusty exhale. 

A wise dwarf would have rounded up the lass and hustled her back to their halls where she belonged, but himself? He delayed again and again, hoping she would come to her senses and return of her own accord. He wished to grant her the chance to recant, to trust her sire and the rest of them with whatever was moving her instead of running off on her own. 

Minutes became an hour, and one hour turned into two. He found himself grudgingly moved to admiration despite his exasperation with her. Bifur’s daughter had a will of mithril. She ignored the complaints of her body completely. 

Saldís proved she was no novice in moving about unseen, too. If she’d been attempting to elude any but the dwarves of Thorin’s Hall—especially one of the warriors who patrolled the region regularly—she’d have succeeded. Light of foot, she was, and careful in masking her tracks. 

It was fortunate for him that she didn’t know the terrain. Only that knowledge allowed him to keep out of her sight, for he knew every nook and shadow that could be utilized as he trailed her. Even with that, he was hard pressed to remain concealed from her at times. He’d have hung back farther to aid his efforts, but with the possibility of her blood-kin lurking about, Finnin absolutely refused to let her gain too much distance from him. 

He checked the sun’s position. _Turn around, Dushin-Mizim. Think of your adâd and turn around._ Too much longer, and Finnin would have to intercede. 

She looked to one side, bringing her face into profile, and a his breath caught. By Mahal, she was exquisite. 

It had blindsided him, these growing emotions surging through his chest each time he caught glimpse of her. His friends thought him mad. That brief kiss had resulted in Finnin receiving an earful of admonitions from all sides, even from the friend he counted as another brother, Ragan. If he wished a female in his life, they said, there were plenty of maids who had batted their eyes at him in the past. Better he look in their direction and not at the Ur family’s cold and violent daughter.

Was he blind, they asked. She had no beard. She was scrawny and weak. He supposed to most dwarves’ sensibilities, that was true. Saldís’s features were different. Fragile. 

They did not see what he saw: an exotic beauty with smooth skin, sharp mind, and a heart too long caged. He saw the child she used to be and the woman she was now. He could easily envision who she was becoming—a woman of strength and valor, aye, but more, a woman of passion. 

She was not there yet, but she was relearning fast what it was to love. In Saldís he recognized the potential for a heart that would love as fiercely as she fought…and Saldís fought like a mother bear denied her cubs. 

Thus far, the only signs of that potential were the wee acts directed towards her small family, but Finnin had hopes. Such hopes. She’d spoken to him, noticed the lack of braids in his beard and asked about it. The words of comfort she’d uttered so awkwardly would be a small thing from another lass, but from Saldís, they spoke volumes. She saw him. She’d trusted him until his mistake. 

By Durin, he hated to think what he’d intended to bring warmth and happiness had instead played upon her worst fears. Just remembering Dori’s words explaining her reaction was enough to boil his blood. When he’d at last won free of the horrible headache from the hard rap she’d given him upon the head, he’d dragged his two best friends—Finnur and black-haired Ragan—into the Halls of War to vent the rage tearing him apart. 

(And then treated both to a full meal at Lofar’s fine establishment in thanks. His purse had been much depleted, but his soul had felt the better for it.) 

Without warning, Saldís’s steady progress through the snow stuttered to a halt. His foot froze mid-step, hand clenching about the shaft of his war ax. _Danger,_ a part of him feared, and he instantly broke into a sprint. 

But no. His brain belatedly noted the obvious. Saldís had not drawn her weapon. He slowed, heart thumping from the fright he’d given himself. What was the lass doing? 

Elation. _She’s going back, she is._ Sure as the snow melting and dripping in icy rivulets down his face, his ebon-haired lassie retraced her steps towards home. 

His joy was short-lived. His smile reversed even as Saldís’s steps did once more. _Go back,_ he urged. Saldís whipped back around, her body language screaming frustration. Back and forth two more times, she went, before she stomped her foot, shoulders tense and hands balled at her sides. 

That was the heart he was coming to see more often exerting its will. She loved her family. Enough that she could not simply abandon them. 

Watching her filled him with enough warmth to drive away the cold. Finnin’s shoulders relaxed from their elevated position. He wouldn’t have to drag her back. Saldís would do that on her own, and he couldn’t be more proud of her.

OoOoOo

Saldís stomped towards Thorin’s Hall, her anger long since snuffed out by the cold seeping into her bones. The day had been a waste, and worse, she’d vastly underestimated the weather. Saldís had spent most of her life in the desert. Though she’d read about the dangers of snow and cold, reading was a far cry from experience, and her brief time in Forochel was but a distant memory. She’d stupidly assumed her woolen, knee-length coat sufficient protection along with trousers and sheepskin boots.

Wool, she’d discovered, was nothing close to waterproof. Resistant, yes, but not impervious. Each snowflake that alighted on her body seemed diabolically bent upon melting and collecting in her coat until it was damp to the touch. 

“Warg dung,” she grumbled, thoroughly disgusted. 

She shivered, holding the coat tight to her body. By now, Adâd would have realized she was gone. Sunset was still a few hours off, but she’d been out here most of the day. The same guilt that had stopped her and turned her around now gained enough substance to feel like a boulder upon her shoulders.

How could she have contemplated it? Leave Adâd? Without word? Her intentions had been noble enough—she couldn’t bear to lead Bifur into danger, and he’d made it clear he’d be with her no matter what. But remembering the anguish he’d suffered the last time she’d disappeared, she knew she’d done something horribly wrong this day.

Berúthiel’s _cats._ She crouched down, huddling in a tight ball on her ankles to try and warm her frozen body. Dwarves made it seem so easy. She’d seen some out and about in the snow with little more than jerkin and pants and assumed what they could do, so too could she. 

Lesson learned. When Mahal had fashioned his dwarves, he’d created a people much hardier than the rest of them. 

All of a sudden, a thick fur coat dropped over her shoulders. “You are ill prepared to be out here, Dushin-Mizim,” a familiar voice proclaimed. 

_Rage._ Saldís bolted upright, numb fingers fumbling for her sword’s hilt, but before she could do more than snarl wordlessly, strong hands prevented the sword from leaving its scabbard. _Finnin._ She opted to ram a knee in his gut instead. 

The breath whooshed from the dwarf’s lungs as he folded over and fell onto his rump. Both of his hands lifted as he gasped, palms facing her. “I’ll not…” He wheezed for each breath. “I mean you no harm, Saldís.”

She drew her sword, finding comfort in its weight. Small, careful steps put distance between them. It was caution, she told herself. Not fear. 

Blue eyes watched her. Finnin’s forehead creased and his nostrils flared with each deep breath. One hand rested upon his belly where she’d struck him. He looked sincere. Hurt, even. 

Saldís wanted to scream. She didn’t want to deal with this. Any of it. Why, oh why, did the fool dwarf have to ruin the easy camaraderie between them? What had possessed him to believe she’d welcome pawing and groping and…

_It isn’t that. You know it isn’t._

Lies. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath of her own, trusting her ears to detect it if he so much as moved from the hip-high blanket of snow he’d tumbled into. She’d reacted instinctively, and that had to change. _I won’t be manipulated. I won’t._

By Kimilzor’s missing heart. Deciding as much was vastly different from realigning her reactions.

“I’d never knowingly cause you harm,” Finnin said, his voice recovered.

She made herself meet his gaze. 

“If I’d known my actions would cause you pain, I’d never have touched you.”

Saldís exhaled slowly, the tip of her scimitar dipping. “I know,” she said tightly. “Now.” She looked away, eyes blind upon the snow-iced pines filling the landscape. “Why did you do it?” she asked softly. Why her? Why now?

“You’ve never seen how it can be between a lad and lass,” he said flatly. 

“I’ve seen—” she began to explain, gaze returning to him.

He cut her off in a hard voice. “A travesty. Violence by cowards unworthy of any female.” His gaze seemed to sharpen. “You’re a smart lass, Saldís. Do you truly believe the race of men—or any people, for that matter—would yet exist if their males routinely violated their females?” He shook his head in a short no. “Nay, the sires of the lasses would long since have killed the males attempting it. Even if it damned their race, they’d never permit it.”

She huffed. “I know.”

His head reared back. “That…is not the response I was expecting.”

Despite everything, her lips twitched. In a dry voice, “If you’d allowed me to finish, I was intending to say that Dís took me to meet a half dozen dwarrows and their families. I still do not understand the attraction of such…actions, but I know it isn’t what I believed.” 

Eyes the same shade of blue as the Long Lake narrowed upon her, and his head tilted to one side. “I could show you.”

That fast, she was glaring at him. Confusion roiled higher, and resentment. Why was he forcing this? With all the frustration she felt, she snapped, “What does it matter? I don’t need to be courted. I don’t want it. What would be the point? I’m _barren._ Even should your words be true, it matters nothing to me.”

For a heartbeat, Saldís thought she saw tragedy on his face, but then the dwarf made a scoffing sound, and she dismissed the notion. With heavier anger, he said, “You may be content to let your kin rob you of more pieces of yourself, but I’m not about to let that happen.”

She kicked up a measure of snow with a growl, then threw her free hand into the air. “They have stolen no—”

“They’ve robbed you of the chance at real happiness and love, lass,” he blasted. The dwarf slowly gained his feet, and her scimitar lifted defensively. He turned a sour look at her weapon before saying, “I’m not going to pounce on you.”

“As if you could,” she jeered. 

“Durin’s beard!” he said, arms lifting in frustration. “I would never force you to endure attentions you didn’t want…”

_“Good.”_ Her hair fanned out behind her as she began to pace with jerky rigidity. By her soul, the dwarf was infuriating. 

“…but you have to see that if you do not reclaim this bit of yourself, if you do not rip every lie they told you out by its roots, they win.”

Those last two words reverberated like a gong, and she froze in place. 

“They win, lass. If you never trust any but your family, if you reject friendship or loving, they’ve the victory. By the Maker, Saldís. What they forced you children to see had one purpose. To put such a fear in you as to destroy any hope of trust or love. To keep you isolated.”

She knew. She’d had days for that truth to seep into her bones. “I know. To control us,” she said through numb lips. 

“Aye.” Quietly said, but Saldís thought she detected notes of pain and anger.

Crunching footsteps neared, but Saldís refused to flinch away this time. _I will NOT be manipulated,_ she snarled within the confines of her mind as she sheathed her sword. She’d almost killed him, yet here he was. By his words and deeds, Finnin proved himself an…ally, she tentatively decided. She might not understand _kissing_ —that still baffled her—but she refused to run from him because _men_ had acted like vicious animals. No dwarf had ever done less than protect her. 

The fur coat she’d lost in her anger returned to her shoulders. She braced herself, dreading what he’d say next. She did not want to argue, but if he broached the topic of courting or kissing once more, the dwarf would sport a black eye for his trouble. 

“Now,” he said lightly, “unless you wish to explain to your sire why you’ve been out here most of the day, I suggest we return as quickly as possible.” His eyebrows waggled at her…playfully? “Care for a lift?” By showing her his back and lifting his arms, she supposed he meant to carry her piggyback like a child.

She shoved him. “I can make it myself.”

“You’re sure?” A big grin peeked over his shoulder. “Think of it this way. I owe you for the distress I caused. This is your chance, Saldís. I don’t play beast of burden for just anyone, you know.” 

Her flesh recoiled. _No._ She was not ready to wrap arms around a male. Not one not of her family. 

“Take a chance, Saldís,” he whispered intently. One big hand stretched out in invitation, palm up. “I’ll not abuse your trust.” Then wriggling his fingers, “Don’t let them win.”

She scowled, batting at the hand. “Don’t manipulate me.”

One bushy blond eyebrow winged upwards. “It’s call encouragement, lass.”

Though a part of her instantly said no, her fury at being so thoroughly deceived provided the courage to take her first tentative step towards friendship. “Fine.”

His body jerked. “Fine?” He beamed at her. “Jump aboard then, lass, and I’ll have us home in two shakes.”

“Abuse my trust, and I’ll gut you.” The words escaped her before she could edit them.

Finnin must have read the truth of her words, for he nodded soberly. “Aye, and I’ll let you. I won’t betray you, Dushin-Mizim. By my honor, I won’t.”

A short nod from her resulted in him once more offering his back. 

_Orc spit._ She regretted her decision already, but pride refused to back down. “Just two shakes?” she asked, returning to his previous words. She gingerly vaulted onto his back, her legs finding a perch upon his hipbones, and her hands settled hesitantly upon his shoulders.

“Well, mayhap three or four,” he corrected in a dry tone as his forearms slid beneath her knees. “Truthfully, I didn’t expect it to take you this long to turn around.”

She stilled as the dwarf began plowing through the snow with greater ease than she’d managed. “You… You were with me all day?”

“All day,” he affirmed in a cheerful voice. 

Her eyes narrowed on the back of his head. “I don’t believe you. I would have noticed.”

One hand whacked her leg gently. “Arrogant in your abilities, aren’t you, now?”

“I know my skills,” she grumbled.

When his head craned around, his grin was wide enough to split his full beard in two. “That you do,” he said, mollifying her miff. “But I’ve been scouting these lands since before you were abducted. I know every inch of them.”

_Giving him the advantage._ Her lips twisted in annoyance, but she let it go with one hard yank on a lock of blond hair. 

Finnin (the rat) feigned a wince before winking. “If you’re in search of a way to express displeasure, Saldís, you’re mining in the wrong mountain. A dwarf’s hair is not a weak point.” 

For a moment, she lost the thread of their conversation as she savored the warmth pouring off of him. Dwarves were like miniature forges, a fact she suddenly developed an appreciation for. She inched closer, ready to jerk backward if he said anything. 

He didn’t. Instead, he continued talking with only the barest of pauses. “I’ve seen a dwarf suspend an anvil from his beard on a bet. It’s why you’ll not see any bald dwarves.”

She snorted at that nonsense. “Lord Dwalin,” she offered as proof.

“Shaves his head,” Finnin countered. “You must have seen the tattoos he sports. They’re the reason he does so.”

Despite herself, curiosity sparked. “Why would he shave his head?”

Finnin grunted as one foot slipped, but he caught himself before they both crashed down. “Read the runes, lass. He had them etched into his skin after he lost Prince Frerin. They were sword brothers.” Blue eyes again made a brief appearance over his shoulder. “I’m not sure you remember King Thorin…?”

She tucked a loose lock of black hair behind her ear before answering. “I remember.” Her lips quirked. “I remember Prince Kíli.” Though the handsome prince’s face had long since lost definition in her mind, she remembered her childlike adoration of him.

Finnin growled.

That brought Saldís up short. Her forehead creased. Was that…jealousy? Despite wishing nothing of courting or messy relational entanglements, she smirked where he could not see it. 

The idea that he cared… All of a sudden, it warmed her.


	22. Hashing out a Plan...and a Discovery

Bifur tore through his home, snatching his travel bag and hopping upon one foot as he simultaneously changed into his sturdy winter boots. He’d never, never, been so wroth with his only child, but this latest action of hers frayed his patience into nothingness. How could she leave without any word?

When he heard the door open, he whipped around to scold Bofur for taking so long, never mind that he, himself, was taking longer than he could accept. But instead of his cousin, there stood his Saldís with a somber look upon her face, Finnin at her shoulder.

“My apologies, Bifur,” Finnin said. “I detained her later than I’d intended.”

Detained her? Bifur kicked free of his single boot in a rush, uncaring where it went, and crossed the room in three large strides. His arms gathered his daughter close. _Mahal._ He’d thought she’d left. Bifur kissed her cheek, surprised to find her bright-eyed when he drew back. 

Finnin murmured about taking his leave and departed, the door clicking to a close behind him. 

“I thought you’d left,” Bifur said thickly. “More fool, I.”

“No,” she whispered, her head descending to rest in the notch between his shoulder and neck. “I’m the fool, Adâd.”

‘Twas a strange mood ruling her. Her arms squeezed about him as if he’d disappear if she let go, and that baffled him. “You were with Finnin this day?” he probed while urging her to the sofa and seating them both.

“He followed me,” she said.

That must have been an interesting encounter. “And yet you let him walk away without a scratch? You’re slipping, my Saldís.”

She snickered. “He did get a knee in the gut.”

Bifur clucked his tongue in mock sorrow. With one hand, he smoothed hair from her face, fingers tracing her adoption braid. 

“Adâd,” she ventured with too much caution. ‘Twas not a tone he liked directed his way. She swiveled upon the sofa to face him, one leg folded beneath her. Her hands delved into his beard and latched onto his braid. “I need you to grant me two things.”

His mind raced. What was it churning in that skull of hers? “Aye?”

“Aye.” She gently tugged upon his beard, her face sober. “I need your forgiveness.”

He captured her hands and squeezed them with one of his. “What is it you are asking, Saldís?” Was there a male body somewhere? Had someone else disrupted her fragile control?

“Finnin followed me today. What he wished to spare me—spare you—is where he found me.” 

By his beard, she looked guilty now. Yet she was here, wasn’t she now. So long as she’d not left, Bifur felt able to weather whatever else she might say. 

“I left.”

Ice congealed in Bifur’s belly. “He brought you back?” he asked, a growing sense of hurt and disappointment causing that ice to spread into his chest.

“No,” she said sharply. “Well, yes, but not as you are thinking.” Her hands latched onto his, squeezing tightly. “I swear, Adâd, I’d already turned around. I couldn’t do that to you. When I left, I’d convinced myself I was protecting you, but the farther I got, the more I knew…”

“Aye?” he prodded roughly.

Turbulent gray eyes met his steadily. “I was wrong, Adâd. Very wrong. I couldn’t do it.”

Mahal. He hauled her close, arms tight. His mind reverberated with the knowledge that he could have lost her again. If enemies had been about… If she hadn’t turned around… Mahal. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into his chest. 

Bifur forced air into his lungs. She’d returned. Of her own volition. The ice melted under the warm rays of relief radiating from the realization. “Why?” he asked gruffly.

“Why?” She pulled away to face him, a small frown on her lips. 

“Why did you leave, Gêdul?” 

That fast, a feral glint appeared in her gray eyes, one that lifted the hairs upon the nape of his neck. “I’ve thought of a way to strike against our enemy. I propose an assault upon Caeldor itself. And I know how it can be done.”

His stomach bottomed out. 

Mahal.

OoOoOo

Nori sat, watchful, beside his older brother while Dori fussed with a tear in one of Nori’s tunics. After a fretful day worrying about Saldís’s absence the day before, they’d all been roused from their beds early in the morning and summoned to Lady Dís’s sumptuous personal quarters in haste. The roomy sitting area had been prepared with food to break their fast as well as coffee and teas. Nori spared a thought to be grateful to Dís for arranging such consideration.

‘Twas too bad the subject at hand had quickly soured his appetite. 

Nori rubbed his nose, gaze returning to where his _umral_ glared at the floor. Nori didn’t blame Bifur one bit. He, too, was aghast at the plan their Saldís outlined to the assembled dwarves. Dwalin, Lady Dís, Captain Ganar, each of the lass’s uncles and her sire listened with such silent intensity one could hear each slide of fabric as Dori sewed. 

By Durin’s bloody ax, their Saldís’s scheme was mad. But as she detailed her reasoning, Nori suspected it also part genius. Erebor had sent an emissary to Gondor to ask what aid the men there might require, and forges within the Lonely Mountain and Thorin’s Hall busily churned out weapons in preparation of the war to come, but other than that, the dwarves had not determined a course of action that might actually prove effective in weakening Mordor, much less to bring about actual victory. 

_Mahal, Thorin. She might be on to something._ Thorin had never been one to sit back and wait for fate to come for him. He’d rushed out to meet it. Nori suspected if he were here, Thorin would see the potential in Saldís’s idea. Aye, Thorin would take her plan and then recruit as many trusted minds as possible to alter it into something survivable for the participants…and Thorin would make sure there were dwarves included to protect their Saldís’s backside. 

Let one of _their_ lassies venture into danger without any o’ her own people with her? Nay, Thorin wouldn’t have allowed it.

Nor, Nori thought, would Dwalin. ‘Twas written plain as day upon his friend’s face. 

“I must find the Dunedain,” Saldís was concluding. “They alone can infiltrate Tovennen.” 

Nori eyed his niece. Saldís had difficulties where men were concerned, and that was an understatement. Nori had only caught glimpses of her virulent hatred of that people, but Bifur had witnessed the full of it in the privacy of their home. 

Yet Saldís thought to venture off into danger with only men for company? It spoke volumes, to the ex-thief’s mind, of how dire she viewed their chances should they wait for Mordor to march upon Middle Earth. 

Nori’s gaze slid back to Bifur. Saldís might think sharing this plan o’ hers would gain her help from the dwarves here, and in that she was correct, but she was fooling herself if she believed they’d let her set foot from their halls without a number of them at her side. They’d not lose their lassie to the Black Númenóreans again.

Nori turned his thoughts to how a band of dwarves might accompany her without tipping their hand. Yon Black Númenóreans must know that by allowing Hlein and his companions to escape, word would reach the Khazâd about what they’d seen in Tovennen. To Nori’s mind, that meant any dwarves had best remained hidden until all was in place for their attack upon Caeldor…if’n they had sufficient numbers for a direct assault and there was much left after Nori’s too-brilliant-for-her-own-good niece had a bit of revenge upon their enemy, turning House against House.

A trip by land to the Orocarni would be the most logical of solutions, but he suspected Saldís had something a mite more speedy in mind. Likely his niece planned upon traveling by sea, a fact he resigned himself to. Nori had been on a ship before, and while he’d no wish to repeat the miserable experience, a dwarf did what a dwarf had to do. 

_Hârondor._ ‘Twas the most likely port, one yet held by the Free Peoples. _Now, how to make Saldís include us in this plan of hers?_ How might they remain hidden? 

Nori rubbed his jaw, frustration rising. He knew too little about the lands they’d be headed toward to begin to formulate an intelligent plan. Nay, that would be our Saldís’s area of expertise. 

_Ye know the way of it, don’t you, Niece?_ If she put her pretty head to it, Nori was confident she could include them. 

The difficulty would lay in convincing her to do so. Well did he remember her protective streak where her sire was concerned. Like as not, she’d fight tooth and nail to try to force Bifur to remain behind.

Not that _that_ would ever happen.

OoOoOo

Bifur stared at his scuffed boots, emotions churning. His Saldís, back in the terrible land that had damaged her so?

Every part of him raged _nay,_ yet he was coming to know the woman his daughter had become. One had but to look at her face to know she’d not be deterred from this course. Not without shackles and ropes, and Bifur suspected he knew how that would end. 

A tendril of amusement penetrated his worry. His lioness would not sit still for that as Bofur had. As tempting an idea as it was, he discarded it. He’d never permit such to be done to his daughter. Not even to protect her. She’d been robbed of free will too often already in her life. 

Mahal, but her plan bordered on suicide. Well, if his stubborn daughter thought she’d be going alone, she had another thing coming.

Bifur’s jaw hardened. ‘Twas a good thing, it was, that her adâd was not one to sit idle in the hopes danger would pass by. Already, he’d begun preparing himself not only for the war to come but to defend his daughter should any come hunting for her. Bifur had stepped up his own training, sparring with Dwalin when Saldís was occupied elsewhere. He spoke of it to no one, though he knew his cousin had noticed, for he’d spotted Bofur doing a spot of his own training with Nori. 

If Bifur was honest, he’d admit that, aye, he’d also been motivated by the idea that fate might one day bring the warg-spawn, Kimilzor, within Bifur’s reach. Should such a boon be granted him, Bifur intended to be ready. By Durin, that one would pay for all that had been done to Bifur’s daughter. 

Truly, he’d not expected such an opportunity to arise, yet now…

_You’ll rue the day you dared take my daughter,_ his spirit whispered to the man. 

Now to inform his wee lassie of his plans. “We go with you,” Bifur said quietly when she paused for a breath. 

Saldís had been detached until this point, but at Bifur’s words, her composure cracked, allowing a hint of anger and vehement denial to shine through. 

In that, she was not alone, for Bifur could not help but recall that she’d left their mountain _alone_ to see this plan done without them. His daughter might very well have ended up in Caeldor once more without his spear defending her. If she was angry to envision him in those accursed lands with her, he was more wroth to imagine the opposite.

Aye, and he allowed his anger to shine through his eyes.

His mule-headed daughter paid it no mind, arguing, “Only so far as the Shire,” with narrowed eyes.

She thought so, did she? Bifur leaned back in his seat, arms crossed before his chest. He kept his words gentle—calm, even—despite his hard stare. “I’m not an underling you can command, my Saldís. Where you go, I follow.”

“Lest you forget,” Nori added in a drawl, “you’re addressing your elders. Most of which, I might add, changed your nappies as a babe.”

Bifur’s lips twitched at Saldís’s disgruntled expression. With little patience, she said, “I only meant to say it would undermine the entire mission if you tried to travel with me to Umbar.”

“Umbar?” more than one dwarf chorused. 

_Umbar?_ Bifur straightened in his seat. _Surely not._

She frowned, and by her expression, ‘twas plain to Bifur she was unused to having her plans questioned. A thought occurred. He’d known she had some authority among the Black Númenóreans—she’d shouted in the First Hall about leading raids upon Gondor, hadn’t she now—but he’d assumed that meant a minor command. 

“What rank did you have among them, my Saldís?” he asked before she could speak. Bifur’s chair creaked as he rose. “How many were under you?”

Saldís’s hand reached up to her ear where those ruby studs had once perched, her face rigid. From beyond his daughter, Bifur witnessed the way Lady Dís startled, her spine straightening and her eyebrows flying upwards. 

“Only the Six Lords, the Hands, and the Duumvirate ranked higher,” Dwalin grunted. “Your daughter wore the fourth earring, but she was not the only one to wear it. There were three from each House.”

Bifur’s left brow twitched. When had Saldís confided this information to Dwalin? Where had Bifur been? He dismissed it as irrelevant at the moment and instead moved on to his next question, his feet carrying him closer to his daughter. “Umbar? ‘Tis a den of corsairs.”

One of Saldís’s black eyebrows winged upward. “Exactly. Corsairs used to taking orders from Black Númenóreans.” That cool composure once more ruled her features. Secure in her victory, his daughter, though not for long. She was going nowhere without him…

“How are we supposed to pass for Númenóreans?” Dori asked.

…or Dori, it seemed. Bifur permitted himself one tiny, satisfied smile. 

Saldís, conversely, looked absolutely appalled that Dori, too, was determined to accompany her. “Corsairs and Black Númenóreans,” she corrected. “That’s why you _can’t_ come. Only men—”

“Why not travel by land?” Captain Ganar interrupted, the red-haired captain’s attention upon what looked to be a map before him. One finger traced a path across the parchment. “Lord Hlein was adamant that the Stiffbeards are willing to take part in any action against these Black Númenóreans.” The pale amber-red eyes lifted to Saldís. “Highly offended that any would dare enslave one of ours, they were.”

Dwalin leaned back in his chair with a grunt. “By foot, such a journey would take years. Even mounted would mean a good six months or more of hard travel.” 

Saldís’s lips parted to argue—Bifur recognized the intent upon her face—but Ganar beat her. “Aye, but it would ensure victory. I care not how powerful their magics. With the might of five dwarf Houses combined, they’d fall before us.”

_“If_ the Ironfists, the Blacklocks and Stonefoots agreed to participate,” Nali interjected. The wild-haired, rough featured dwarf twitched one eyebrow skeptically, his opinion plain. Truthfully, Bifur shared the sentiment. The Stonefoots were so reclusive, none of the other Houses even knew where to find their Halls, and the Blacklocks cared for little beyond their gems and jewelry. 

An unfortunate truth, Bifur mused, as the Blacklocks dwelled along the southwestern reaches of the Orocarni, putting them closest to Tovennen. But a month away from Tovennen, the Blacklocks were, mayhap less if their peculiar lizard mounts were as fleet as the swarthy dwarves claimed.

Ganar conceded the point by waving one big hand.

“That is assuming we have such time to lose,” Saldís said stiffly, her spine as stiff as Bifur’s spear. 

Dwalin studied her shortly. “You believe otherwise?”

The first glimmer of uncertainty appeared upon her face. Saldís’s tongue touched her upper lip. “I have no proof,” she began.

“But?” Dwalin pressed.

“But.” A pensive expression creased her brow and pursed her lips. “From the elves, the sons of Numenor inherited more than longevity. It is a fading gift, and uncertain at best, but it is not unheard of for one of us to have visions. I cannot claim to that, but in my years, I’ve learned to listen to my instincts, and right now they tell me we are running out of time.”

Bifur rocked upon his feet, absorbing her words. If his daughter was right, they could little risk the delay an overland trip to the Red Mountains would entail. Should the forces of Caeldor joined Mordor, there would be little reaching them behind the Black Gates. 

Not the dwarves among them, at any rate. Mahal, but he felt ready to break out into sweat to imagine his daughter disguising herself as one of the enemy and venturing _there._ Nay. They had to strike before such a thing came about. 

“Which means you can’t come,” Saldís concluded. “The Dunedain and I will need to travel swiftly into enemy lands. That means travel by sea or at worst taking the Harad Road south. You would be seen.”

Bifur’s hands balled at his sides. Frustration rose. So reasonable, she was, and he was hard pressed to find argument to counter her.

‘Twas then his _umral_ spoke. “Oh, we’ll be with you,” Nori interrupted. His dagger returned to its sheath with a muted, scraping noise as he rose to his feet. Nori bestowed a humorless smile on Bifur’s daughter. “And if you set your mind to it, I know you’ll find the way. You know those lands. You know the ways of the peoples there. How they patrol. What might rouse them to suspicion.” 

Bifur’s brows rose. Aye, Nori had the right of it. Bifur’s thumb rubbed against his lower lip. Saldís could construct a plan to permit them to join her. 

_By Durin, lass._ She was trying to protect him again—aye, and likely the rest of their family, too—by omitting them. His anger rekindled. He’d be having words with his daughter later about this penchant of hers. He was not to his doddering years quite yet, thank ye very much.

Her chin lifted. “Why should I?” she asked in a cool enough voice, but her cheeks colored the faintest bit red. 

Nori smiled, and it was a predator’s toothy grin. “Because if you do not use that bonny head of yours to find the way, we’ll go with _my_ plan. Shall I be telling you how that goes?”

By now, all eyes flew between the two. Even Dwalin leaned forward in his seat as the two wills clashed before them. 

Thunder and veritable lightning flashed within Saldís’s stormy eyes. Her slender frame was so tense it near thrummed audibly. “I’m listening,” she said.

Nori’s arms crossed before him. “Like it or not, there’s naught ye can do to prevent us from following. If need be, we’ll borrow an ally from among men, chain ourselves hand and foot, and present ourselves as your hostages in Umbar. Your belated gift to the Duumvirate and proof that the claims of your betrayal are just that. Claims.”

Bifur inhaled. _Mahal, Nori._ He’d deliver them all into enemy hands? 

Dori dropped the shirt he was mending. Dwalin knocked over his mug, and Lady Dís? Well, her fork scraped loudly across the surface of her plate.

If Saldís was mad, Bifur considered his friend might be more so, for though Nori was plainly attempting to force Saldís to back down, there was not a shred of doubt in Bifur’s mind that if Saldís balked, Nori at least intended to do just as he’d outlined.

Aye, and Bifur would join him. His jaw firmed. If it took being a captive to be in the thick of things where he might aid his daughter, that is what he’d do.

OoOoOo

Saldís’s belly contorted in knots as Nori effectively demolished her carefully constructed plans. There were so many holes in his absurd notion that she could roost a flock of _emala_ within them, but staring into those steady blue eyes, she could not doubt his intention for a moment.

A cold fear brushed against her soul. They were going to accompany her. Nori, Dori, Adâd, and Bofur. They weren’t going to be deterred.

“It could work,” Nori said with a half-shrug. “Though I’ll have to be brushing up on my lock-picking skills.”

_No._ Saldís determined to nip this in the bud right away. “No,” she growled, glaring at Nori. How could he suggest such a thing? “No. I forbid it.”

Nori tossed her a smirk. “Not your decision, Niece.”

“I’ve been labeled a traitor,” she argued. “You could wind up summarily executed on an altar! The Duumvirate does not take chances, Nori.” 

“Uncle Nori,” Bofur offered helpfully, a slight grin upon his face.

Saldís rolled her eyes. Truly? Bofur found amusement even now? 

“You’ve been labeled a traitor by one known to play games for position,” Nori continued in the same matter-of-fact voice, a thread of amusement undergirding each syllable. “Who is to say they’d not believe your word over his?”

“Your _ally,”_ she stressed with derision, “won’t know the faintest bit about pretending to be a Corsair _or_ Númenórean. He’ll be slaughtered! You’ll be chained in truth so fast your beard will freeze.” By all the Valar, why did her family always have to be so thrice-dipped stubborn? 

Nori, the wretch, smiled. 

Saldís growled audibly and stomped across the room, hand tight about the hilt of her scimitar.

“What’s that?” Bofur chimed in. “Was that you agreeing to work us into this wondrous plan o’ yours?” Then in a loud whisper, “Deep in her heart, I’m sure she’s overjoyed.”

_Overjoyed?_

She spun around. “Lord Dwalin,” she entreated. She could have winced at the pleading note within her voice if not for the seriousness of the matter. But _her_ dwarves? Put into such a dangerous position? No. No, no, no, and again no. She’s suffer the _brih tahn_ first and gladly.

Dwalin drummed fingers on his armrest. “Tell me, daughter of Bifur.” Piercing eyes pinned her in place without warning, his fingers halting their repetitive patter. “When you swore loyalty to the Longbeards, did you mean it?”

Did she mean it? Saldís stiffened. “I did.”

Dwalin leaned back in his chair, one hand stroking his beard. “There is no way I’m permitting you to go alone. But even if I could be swayed to your view…” He leaned forward, hands dropping to the armrests upon his chair. “…which _will not_ happen…” he stressed before once again leaning back in his seat. “…your family has suffered enough in your absence. They’ve the right to join you, and nothing will stop them.”

Saldís’s eyes closed, and she took a deep breath. She’d feared just this, and with Lord Dwalin’s words, it seemed the outcome of this meeting was inevitable. Truthfully, she did want her adâd by her side…yet she feared she could not do what must be done with him there to witness it. 

Footsteps. A hand cupped her cheek, one she recognized before opening her eyes. _Adâd._ Her eyelids lifted, and there he was, brown eyes capturing hers. 

“You’ve much to learn about family, Gêdul,” he said lowly. “Aye, part of it is protecting our loved ones. But another part is standing and facing the future together. You’ll not be facing _this_ future alone.”

The fight drained from her. Nori had backed her into a corner, but she suspected that even if he hadn’t, the outcome would have remained the same. Her hand lifted to Bifur’s beard braid. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” she said thickly.

He drew their foreheads carefully together. “That, I’m knowing, my Saldís.”

They stood that way for a long, silent stretch until Lord Dwalin cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I’m glad that is settled.”

“How dangerous will this be for you, Saldís?” Dori asked, his voice soft and eyes full of worry. 

She hesitated—she could not tell Dori of all people about the _brih tahn_ —and Dwalin spoke again. “Knowing that beardless _ugrad_ (coward), Lord Sangahyando, as you do, what do you believe his actions were upon being informed of the events in Dale?”

The question gave her pause. That Kimilzor would see her dead was as far as she’d considered the matter. Now? After thinking the matter through, she said, “He’ll wish to spare the House any loss of face.” 

Not that she blamed him. She’d do the same in his boots. Kimilzor would not be the first Lord to bleed for the Duumvirate’s pleasure. They wouldn’t kill him, probably, but Kimilzor never risked his neck to chance. “He’ll quietly order my death to a handful of Weapons and Arcanists he knows will never cross him. Publicly, he’ll declare the entire party a loss.”

“Meaning he’ll likely be hiding the true events even from those of his own House,” Nori said, eyes narrowed. 

Dwalin grunted. “How do we proceed?” 

Saldís tapped fingers against her side, then she scowled, realizing the gesture as one she’d adopted from Nori himself. Irritation flared. _Blasted dwarf._

She set aside her druthers and truly hashed the matter out in her mind. “I could remain hidden,” she said. “It would be the safest course of action. Assuming one of the Dunedain is willing to play the part of a Weapons-Master, there would be no need for me to directly interact with any Black Númenóreans.” 

But what to do about her Khazâd? That was the question. Saldís paced back and forth across the silent room, her brow creased. There had to be a way to hide them. Ib-Akhora had never conceded to impossibilities, and Saldís refused to now, not with Nori’s absurd plan lurking in the back of her mind. No, there had to be a way, one that would keep her dwarves safe. 

She could hide them in crates if they sailed into Umbar, she mused, but how to prevent curious eyes from looking at the cargo too closely? There must be some way of…

_The Dunharrow._ The idea whispered through her mind. 

Saldís froze. For generations, the Duumvirate had lusted for the power lurking under those mountains, the power to control the army of wraiths cursed by Isildur thousands of years ago. All efforts through the years had met with abject failure, but that did not mean the Duumvirate had altogether scrapped the idea. 

A fact the Corsairs knew full well, having been the victims of the attempts. _Willing participants, rather._ Her lip curled. The lure of gold worked every time, despite the fact that each previous venture into those cursed mountains had resulted in the deaths of the fools witless enough to set foot there. 

As the proverb now said, the dead did not suffer the living. 

Saldís took a deep breath. If handled adeptly, yes, she could use the Corsairs’ aversion to anything dealing with the Dunharrow to her benefit. 

Her gaze slid to Nori. “We sail into Umbar and hide you and any others of the Khazâd in crates. We declare you our booty and transfer you into one of the warehouses for later delivery.” Her head tilted to one side. “It won’t be cheap. The warehouses are always in demand, and the fees are outrageous.”

Dwalin grunted. “That won’t be a problem.”

Saldís had to admit that was true. Thorin’s Hall did not possess the legendary wealth of Erebor, but a number of the dwarves in this room owned a sizable chunk of it. She exhaled. “It will be more costly than you imagine.” Once her cargo was declared to be relics from Dunharrow, the price would climb exponentially. 

She tapped fingers against her side. “The Captain of the Haven owns all of the warehouses. His overseers inspect just about everything…”

“Well, that won’t work,” Bofur protested.

Saldís smirked. “…but we can use the Corsairs’ superstitions against them. We tell them the crates contained artifacts from the Dwimorberg. Since the Duumvirate has attempted to get its hands on such relics dozens of times, they won’t question it, nor will they dare steal the cargo for fear of the Duumvirate’s wrath.”

“The Dwimorberg?” Dori asked with bushy brows lifted high.

“You’ve heard of the men of Dunharrow? The men cursed by Isildur?” She received a number of blank stares in return. Her voice turned quiet. “That mountain is cursed. Long ago, Isildur, King of Gondor, cursed the men for failing to honor their covenant with him to rally to his cause should Sauron threaten Gondor. When the time came, they refused to keep their word. He cursed them, and they fled into the mountains.”

“Eh, that was centuries ago, lass,” Bofur pointed out.

“Thousands of years,” Saldís agreed with a brittle smile. “Those men died, but their shades remain, doomed to linger until Isildur’s heir calls upon them and they fulfill their oath.”

“The Duumvirate meddles with _that?”_ Bofur asked incredulously.

Saldís nodded shortly. “They have long sought a way to interfere with that curse, to force the shades to the Duumvirate’s service. They deem the lost lives spent in the attempt as reasonable.” A short exhale, a rake of the hand through the hair. “An army of ghosts. Of course they wish to control them.”

“And I’ll bet the Duumvirate remains safely at home while others die in the attempt,” Nori snorted. 

Saldís’s lips twisted, and she nodded in affirmation. “The Duumvirate has never been staffed by one lacking in intelligence. No, they commands underlings—Weapons and Arcanists that they deem expendable, mostly—and they bribe Corsairs as well. None live to tell the tale.” 

Her skin crawled to imagine such an attempt. Stealing from the dead seemed particularly foolhardy to her. “My point is that we’ll need to craft a couple fake artifacts and pretend we’ve achieved some measure of success. It should deter the overseers from looking too closely.” 

“Should. Did ye hear that, lads? It _should_ keep them from looking closely,” Bofur said before tossing back a mouthful of something foamy. 

She crossed arms before her. “You asked for a plan. This is it.”

“Go on,” Dwalin said, his heavy eyebrows low.

Saldís took another breath. “Once in the warehouse, it should prove simple enough to steal out of Umbar at night. If the Dunedain prove anything like the Black Númenóreans, their sharp eyes will be ample protection as we guide the Khazâd members out.” Especially with her knowledge of the port town.

A slow smile bloomed upon Nori’s face. “I knew you’d work out a way if given sufficient motivation,” he said smugly. 

_Wretch._ Saldís snatched a roll from the table on her right and toss it at his head. 

Instead of colliding with the dwarf’s skull, the roll was deftly caught in Nori’s big hand. He grinned and took a big bite. “Why, hank wou, wass,” he said around his mouthful. “Wou’ve been wery accommowating toway.”

Bifur chuckled softly from beside her. Dori glared at his brother and grumbled, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Nori winked in return.

Saldís scowled, irritated. _Orc spit._ This was one battle she hated to have lost. Nori. In Tovennen. Bifur, too. 

Saldís inhaled and tried to ignore the panic threatening to flatten her. Adâd. Near Kimilzor. 

Her eyes slid to Bifur. Her adâd would kill Kimilzor if he could, but she was terrified of what a confrontation between them might bring. Bifur was skilled, and he’d been honing his abilities by sparring with Lord Dwalin. He thought she didn’t know about that, but Saldís missed little where her adâd was concerned.

He was her world. Her anchor. She could not lose Bifur. 

Dwalin lifted one big palm, commanding attention. He turned in his seat to face the silent dwarrowdam beside him. “You’ve been quiet.”

Dis’s hands twisted about a napkin. Then with a sigh, she smoothed it out, set it aside, and rose to her feet. “I’ve lost all of my family on risky ventures such as this,” she said with a measure of bitterness. “Yet each,” Dís continued, “gave his life for one thing. To fight the cursed Shadow and its minions. Oh, I know what you would say,” she directed to Dwalin. “That Thorin and my sons died reclaiming our home. But in the end, it was not the reclaiming that took them. It was Melkor’s foul creatures.” 

The princess’s hand slid along the back of her chair as she circled to stand behind it. Her gaze lifted to stare at the portrait Saldís had noted hanging behind Dwalin and Dís’s seats. ‘Twas of Dís, King Thorin, and another, blond-haired dwarf Saldís couldn’t identify. Sorrow entered the princess’s eyes, and regret. 

“Saldís’s words ring true to me.” Dís’s attention drifted to each person in the room. “Sauron will not stay content behind his gates.” Dís exhaled and told Dwalin, “With each passing day, he grows stronger. We dare not delay by traveling overland to the Orocarni, much as I wish we could.” Blue eyes slid towards Saldís. “We should send ravens in search of Gandalf to advise him of what we’ve learned, but I fear even our Gray Wizard would struggle to hold back an army of sorcerers.” 

Dís’s hand stroked down one of the five short braids containing her beard, and her expression firmed as she continued, “You, Saldís, will not be going alone. I am in complete agreement with Dwalin. My thoughts? We proceed thusly: Durin’s folk will accompany Saldís to the Shire. Once the Dunedain are found, from there the team can decide if this venture continues. We don’t yet know if the Rangers will agree to any of this.” To Dwalin, “This will require some of our best warriors, but I do not want to empty these Halls, leaving them vulnerable should the mission fail. There are lives here that will need protecting.”

Dwalin’s chair scraped against the floor as he rose to his feet, too. “Aye, so I’d figured.” He rapped the knuckles of one hand upon the table’s surface. “It will need to be a small party. Even with Saldís’s knowledge, there’d be no hiding a large force.”

Dís’s arms folded before her chest. Her gaze hardened. “You cannot accompany them.” She smiled. “You accepted lordship of these Halls, and its defense is your responsibility. You, my friend, are staying here.”

A fact that clearly displeased the Lord of Thorin’s Hall based upon his disgruntled expression. A sentiment Saldís knew she would share if in his boots. 

It was then that Dori spoke up. “Have Erebor and Khazad-dum been notified of what we’ve discovered? Have they been told about the sorcerers and the Dark Lord’s plans?”

Saldís jerked. By Kimilzor’s missing heart… Khazad-dum? The name gonged through her mind. _Moria,_ she identified.

A sickening suspicion lifted its head. A ludicrous one, surely. 

“They’re too far away to join this venture, but we sent ravens…” Ganar said.

They spoke as if Khazad-dum remained in dwarf hands. They had to know. How could they not know? 

She lost part of the conversation as Ganar’s voice turned hollow and distant. It felt like she struggled to wade through quicksand as she turned to face her eldest uncle. Dori spoke hopefully of finally getting some response from Balin and…Ori. 

Ori had been in Moria? How? _Why?_ She’d assumed that like Uncle Bombur, Ori had remained in Erebor. 

They didn’t know. It seemed unbelievable. How could they _not know?_

Ori. He’d been such a gentle soul. Why, oh why, did it have to be him? Saldís’s chest ached with her own grief and the grief she was about to cause Dori as she make her way to her uncle with slow, heavy steps. 

“Saldís?” she heard her adâd ask from behind. Conversation trickled to a halt, and she felt the press of many eyes upon her.

When she reached his side, Dori’s face was creased with concern. For _her._ Almost, she locked the knowledge within her heart. She did not want to deliver this wound. How, how, could they not know? 

Saldís kneeled, took his sewing from him and set it aside. Then framing Dori’s dear, round face in her palms, she managed—throat tight and burning—“I’m so sorry, Uncle. I didn’t know. I thought… I’m so sorry.” 

In all their discussions, the topic of Moria had never arisen. She supposed with sudden bitterness that they’d assumed all was well while she assumed they knew otherwise.

Questions. Lord Dwalin. Nori. Lady Dís. But it was Dori who blanched as his hands came to her shoulders. “What is it? What do you know?”

“Khazad-dum fell,” she said. “The orcs reclaimed it over five years ago.”

A brief, lancing silence. Then with a gasp, Dori cried, “Nay.” 

Nori appeared beside them, his arm wrapping around his brother’s shoulders. “It cannot be.” An instinctive denial. Then with a hint of desperation, “How could you know, Saldís?” 

With difficulty, she met Nori’s gaze, reading the fear lurking in their pale depths and grieving for it. It helped that Bifur planted himself at her side and squeezed her shoulder. “The Dark Lord ordered it done,” she said bleakly. “Moria is positioned perfectly to strike out at Rivendell and Lothlorien. His hatred of the elves is legendary. He refused to relinquish that staging ground.”

Her eyesight blurred as Dori broke down in his brother’s arms. “Nay! Not our Ori! Nori…”

Nori roughly thumped his brother on the back, tears leaking down his own cheeks. And at the table, she realized, Dwalin had his face buried in one palm while Dís hugged him from behind. Not a dwarf in the room seemed unaffected. 

Saldís felt endlessly wretched. She’d been serving the Dark Lord when he sent his troops to go and murder Ori. Twisting free of her sire’s grasp, she stood and walked from the room, fury quickly drowning out her grief.

She hoped Finnin was in the Halls of War, because she felt she would burst if she couldn’t rid herself of the pain and rage ricocheting through her. 

_Ori._

OoOoOo

Dís’s quill scratched out her missive with more haste than elegance. She hoped its recipient would be able to read it despite its lack of finesse.

“Just what are you about?” Dwalin rumbled as he seated himself beside her. The room had cleared shortly after Saldís’s departure, leaving Dís, Dwalin, Ganar and Nali alone. 

Dís lifted her head. She’d believed Dwalin, Ganar and Nali embroiled in their own discussion. Preparing Thorin’s Hall for Mordor’s assault— _Mahal grant it not come to that,_ she prayed—would be an endeavor with no end until either their Halls fell…or the Dark Lord was vanquished once and for all. Dís hadn’t believed the three males would notice her own actions.

Foolish really. Her lips stretched in a fond smile. “Can a lady not pen a missive to a friend without drawing the attention of the great Lord of Thorin’s Hall?” she teased.

Dwalin grunted, arms folding across chest and beard. “None of your sass. I know you, Dís. I know that look upon your face.”

Dís inclined her head. ‘Twas true enough. Dwalin had been a surrogate brother since Frerin’s death. Perhaps before, too, though she’d not labeled it as such until tragedy had stolen the first of her siblings. “I spoke true,” she told him more seriously. “I aim to strengthen Saldís and her team’s chances.”

“Eh?” Dwalin leaned forward, elbows plunking down on the table. “Explain, Dís. What mischief are you plotting in that head of yours?”

“Mischief,” she said, feigning affront. Dwalin’s glower didn’t alter one bit. _Stubborn._ Dropping the attempt at levity, she said, “I but weigh the odds in our favor.” Then to be fair, she added, “Or try to.”

“What do you mean?” 

A deep breath, and she set the quill aside for a moment. “Should Saldís be discovered, it is her word against that Valkthor’s. I don’t like how precarious that position would be for her or the rest of the party.”

“Go on,” Dwalin said, hand rubbing his chin and eyes intent.

With grim determination, Dís outlined her idea. Dwalin’s expression transitioned from incredulity to vehement opposition before settling into strong lines of grim agreement. “You ask much of him,” Dwalin said after she’d finished sharing her reasoning with him.

“Aye,” Dís said lightly. Little did she care for what she asked, but she was a Durin. She’d do what must be done to safeguard her people. Saldís’s team must succeed. Too many lives counted upon it. 

“Thorin would be proud,” Dwalin said softly, drawing her full attention. “Aye, and your sire. ‘Tis an honor to serve you, my lady.”

Her hand slid across the table’s wooden surface to grasp his wrist. By Durin. Her eyes pricked with tears. A gentle shake of his wrist, and she returned to her missive. 

A precaution, she called message, and so it was, but the fear lurking in her heart said it was one not to overlook. Would it garner the support she hoped? _He’s too far away,_ fear whispered. Mayhap. 

Dís could but try. 

The missive winged away in the grasp of a raven not ten minutes later. With Eru’s blessing, she prayed it would find its destination.

OoOoOo

Bifur watched his daughter as she emerged from the bathing chamber, her hair wet and her body enclosed once again in the blue lounge suit Dori had made her. He wondered if Dori knew how much she loved that gift, for she wore it at the end of each day. Sooner if something disturbed her.

Saldís had returned that afternoon dripping with sweat. He knew she’d been to the Halls of War and had let her be. She was a grown woman, and he knew well that there were pains a hug could not fix. 

Not that he wouldn’t try. He walked to her and tucked an arm around her. Trying to lighten the mood, he asked, “What was the second favor?” At her questioning quirk of one eyebrow, he clarified, “Yesterday, you asked my forgiveness for leaving, my Saldís. You have that. What was the other favor?”

A tremulous smile preceded a gentle hand coming to his braid. “I love you, Adâd.”

He drew her forehead to his, as ever careful of the ax lodged in his skull. He held her like that, content not to move until she drew back. 

“How do I bear it, Adâd?” she whispered.

His eyes closed. No doubt remained to him what she was thinking. He supposed it was to be expected. Her crimes in the past were terrible indeed, but this was the first time she saw a link between her actions and the death of a loved one. Nay, she’d had nothing to do with Ori’s death directly, nor Balin’s or Oin’s, but she’d aided the enemy who’d orchestrated it. 

Bifur kissed her temple. “You cannot undo the past, my Saldís. Keep on as you are. Do all within your power to see to it that no other kingdoms fall to that one. Help us to fight him.” He used his hold around her to jostle her. “Do it in Ori’s name.”

Her nod was slow. “I’d already decided that,” she said. Her gaze drifted from him. “So much stolen by him. By Sauron. He has to be stopped, Adâd. The Dark Lord has to be destroyed.” 

What could Bifur say? ‘Twas true, right enough. Though he wished his daughter not mixed up in such events, there was no undoing the past. _I’ll be with you,_ he silently vowed again. He’d see to it she survived the dark road before them. Aye, he would. 

“The second favor?” he prodded.

She walked over to the mantel and collected the flute he’d crafted for her. That it had survived the gifting was a miracle, for she’d hurled it across the room with tremendous fury. Why, he’d yet to hear, but one day he’d know. 

Not this night. Her heart ached enough this night.

She displayed it between them upon upraised palms. “Will you teach me how to play again?”

OoOoOo

As her adâd coached her in where to position her fingers upon the flute, a hard kernel of determination married itself to the fury now pointed at Mordor like an arrow in her soul. Sauron would pay. How, she didn’t know. But Saldís was going to dismantle his army in Caeldor, then destroy the one in Mordor if it took her life.

For Adâd. 

And for Ori.


	23. Hunting the Dunedain

_**Ered Luin  
15 December TA 3018** _

The very day after her uncle Bombur, Aunt Siv, and her three new cousins arrived—Bjartur, Martur, and Sigrun in order by age—the first members of what Saldís had dubbed the Black Company gathered in Frerin’s Court to begin their journey. Ponies were saddled, packs were stowed, and the dwarves with her bid farewell to their loved ones. 

Saldís was relieved to go. Anticipation and dread had plagued her night, robbing her of sleep. If any attributed the dark circles underscoring her eyes to fear of the peril before them, they’d be wrong. For Ori, herself, and Adâd, she’d storm Mordor itself without hesitation in search of vengeance. 

Nay, fear of the task before her was not what had consumed her. All night as she’d sat propped up in her bed fingering her adoption braid, the whisper-soft realization had haunted her that soon, too soon, she could no longer simply be Saldís. To protect those that she loved, to wrest victory from this chancy scheme, the brave souls venturing south would need Akhora…not the daughter of Bifur who was learning how to laugh. 

Oh, but the knowledge chilled her to her core. She did not want to touch that ruthless, calculating side of herself. She’d lost herself to it once; she feared she could well lose herself to it again. 

Despite the heavy bolts of black fabric in her arms, she paused from loading the pack pony. Her head panned in a slow sweep until she located where Bifur stood chatting with Uncle Bomber. For him, she’d do anything. Even risk what was left of her own soul.

She exhaled slowly and readjusted her grip on her heavy burden.

_Soon,_ she told herself. She’d call upon Akhora soon, but not quite yet. 

Sight of the shy dwarfling hugging Uncle Bombur’s leg, Martur, only served to solidify the growing commitment to do whatever necessary to ensure the mission’s success. _For them, too,_ she thought, her gaze moving from Bombur’s middle son to where his black-haired, merry wife stood holding their small daughter.

Saldís’s heart clenched. Her three cousins had been so very excited to meet her upon their arrival the day before. Brown-haired Sigrun, the youngest who even now rested in her dam’s arms, had climbed up on Saldís’s lap at dinner, sucking one tiny finger as she inspected Saldís as if she’d never beheld a woman before. Perhaps, Saldís had to grant, Sigrun hadn’t. Martur, a round-faced lad of thirty-two, had greeted her in a whisper and thereafter hidden behind his mother’s skirts, blushing and smiling each time Saldís managed to catch his eye. 

Bjartur, the eldest at sixty-seven, had turned worshipful from the get-go. He’d ogled her “curvy” sword, proudly declared their kinship to be closer than his siblings could claim—“See? We have the same black hair!”—and begged and pleaded with an infectious grin until she relented and took him to the Halls of War so that he could see the curvy sword in action. 

She owed Finnin and the black-haired friend he’d introduced as Ragan for running interference for her. What did she know of dwarflings or the young? She’d been awkward with her words, hesitant. If she’d had to guess, Finnin found the entire matter terribly entertaining, and by the evening’s end, Bjartur had eyed Saldís and Finnin both worshipfully. 

Family. The more she feared she could not possibly stretch her trust and affections any farther, the more she proved herself wrong. She vowed not to forget it. To cherish each moment remaining to her to simply be Saldís. Once the Dunedain were found, she knew that freedom would be gone. 

A flash of bright yellow teased the corner of her eye. “Let me help you with that.”

By voice and the distinctive yellow coat, she instantly identified Finnur even as her burden was lightened. Saldís stepped to the side to permit the redhead to reach the ties upon the pack pony. With the ease of familiarity, Finnin’s brother lashed the heavy bolts of black fabric to the pony’s back between the pannier bags. 

“Not used to ponies?” he asked, the sparkle in his eyes inviting her to share his humor. 

Saldís was not quite comfortable with Finnur as yet. They’d had little interaction between them. Her fault, she knew, for until Finnin’s challenge to embrace people—to not let “them” win—she’d kept her distance. She suddenly regretted that. Finnur had once been her closest confidante. With a wry smile, she said, “I’ve ridden horses, but in Tovennen we use _emala._ They are hardier and swifter in the deserts.” 

It was then that Bjartur materialized at her elbow, heavy cooking accoutrements piled high within his arms. _“Emala?_ What are those, Cousin?” Dark brown eyes sparkled up at her with curiosity. So much like his dam, this cousin of hers, with his black hair, wide mouth, and a dainty (by dwarf standards, she amended privately with amusement) nose. It was in his ruddy cheeks and mannerisms that Bombur’s contribution became obvious. Bjartur was ever rubbing hands across his belly when thinking, the act an echo of his father.

Finnur joined Saldís is transferring Bjartur’s load into the pony’s panniers, then he craned his head back to meet her gaze. “Those are bird-like creatures, aye?”

“They are,” she answered. At Bjartur’s bewildered expression, she clarified,“They have long necks. The tops of their heads reach as high as fifteen feet from the ground.”

“Fifteen feet?” Bjartur repeated. There went the hands across his belly, folding there as if he was as wide around as Uncle Bombur. Then a gamine grin. “You’re having one over on me.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m with the lad, Saldís. I think you’re exaggerating,” Finnur said as all three retraced their steps to gather additional supplies from the stacks assembled at the base of Thorin’s statue. They filled their arms with travel rations, water pouches, and medicinals. 

“I’m not jesting,” Saldís said with a touch of exasperation. _“Emala_ and camels have been the primary modes of transportation in Tovennen for thousands of years. _Emala_ are temperamental but fleet. Hardy in dry climates.”

“Temperamental?” Finnur asked with the beginnings of a grin.

Saldís’s lip quirked upwards on one side. “You’ll never meet so tetchy an animal in all your life.”

The three returned to the pack ponies to stash the supplies inside the panniers, Finnur shaking his head and chuckling. Bjartur nudged her gently. “What about mumakil? Have you seen one?”

Saldís’s attention returned to her cousin. Despite everything, she was growing ever fonder of this young dwarf. He was so very different than she’d been at his age…or the equivalent for that matter. Bjartur remained innocent in so many ways. She was suddenly, fiercely resolved to ensure he wasn’t robbed of it any sooner than necessary. 

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” she said with forced lightness, her thoughts full of the plentiful clans of Haradrim ready to rally at Sauron’s call. One by one, her armload of items disappeared into the panniers. She spare a thought to fervently hope the young dwarf would never see a mumukil for himself, for if he did, it meant this mission of hers—and the attempts by the other kingdoms of Middle Earth to defend their lands—had failed.

Bjartur’s hand caught the lapel of her new, shaggy gray fur jacket as she turned to collect more gear. “Cousin, I don’t wish you to go.” His somber tone warned her not to dismiss his words. 

The revelations of the night before and the sense that time was trickling through her fingers like sand gave her the courage to act. She pulled Bjartur into a hug. With a sigh, she told him the truth. “I’m a novice at this, Bjartur.” He pulled back with brow scrunched in confusion. “Family,” she clarified. “Trusting.” Why was it she could confide in this cousin so quickly? “They are things I was taught did not exist.”

The young dwarf waited as she sorted out what she wished to say.

“But war… This, I know. This, I do very, very well. If my past allows me now to go out and stop my blood kin from arriving on your doorstep—if it lets me protect our family for even a handful of seasons—then it was worth it. Pain and all.” 

By her soul, she meant it. The Black Númenóreans would regret ever molding her into Akhora.

Bjartur’s bearded chin wobbled as it lifted. He gathered her into a tight embrace. “Come back,” his said in a voice clogged with emotion. “I just got you. You have to come back.”

“I’ll try my hardest.”

He took firm hold of her shoulders. “No. You _will_ come back. Promise.”

With all that was stacked against her? “I can’t promise you that,” she said softly. 

His expression turned mulish. With a grunt, he lifted a necklace off his neck, a silvery chain with a milky, crystal-shaped hunk of stone upon it. 

“Bjartur,” she objected.

He frowned at her, silencing her objection. In that moment, the dwarf he would soon be appeared, the first inkling of true adulthood rearing its head. “Wear it. It will remind you of what is waiting for you so you’ll fight harder. You have a family now, and we want you to return.” He settled the necklace around her neck with satisfaction. “The stone is _narzatê_ and is mined only in the Orocarni.” A brief smile. “It’s always been my favorite.”

By her soul, she didn’t deserve this family. She prodded the corners of her lips upwards in a tremulous smile, her chest tight. One hand closed about the milky blue and white stone. 

It wasn’t long after that Bombur’s family bid their final farewells and departed Frerin’s Court. Saldís lingered next to the same horse she’d ridden from Dale, her own bedroll and personal supplies in saddlebags on the blond horse’s back. With white mane and stockings, the horse stood out among the shorter, darker ponies. 

“That’s one fine cousin you have there,” Finnur commented as he waited by his bay steed. With a trace of amusement, she considered rider and pony matched very well with their fiery hair. Was it intentional?

But his coat… 

The glaring yellow clashed spectacularly with pony and the dwarf himself. “Yes,” she agreed simply. Her attention drifted across the coat’s bulging surface. “Isn’t that…heavy?” she asked, wondering how much the odds and ends the dwarf carried would slow him down. His poor pony would be carrying twice the dwarf’s weight by her estimate. 

Finnur answered with a grin. “Ye may think me mad now, but I assure you, you’ll be thankful for my coat and its gifts later.” 

Though it was rude, she couldn’t quite mask her doubt, and Finnur outright laughed. Stepping nearer, coat jangling, he confided, “Ye know our people, Saldís. We dwarves are famed craftsmen. We’ve keen minds and a penchant for creating things that solve our needs, but even among my own kin, I confess I’m an oddity.”

“A genius,” came Finnin’s voice as he strode passed them, smiling and winking at Saldís as he carried his own gear to a gray pony with black mane and tail. 

“Bah, don’t mind him,” Finnur said. For all his bluster, though, Saldís recognized how much his brother’s support meant to the shorter dwarf. “I do enjoy tinkering,” Finnur confessed a bit bashfully.

Now her curiosity was caught. “What do you make?”

Finnur’s coat clinked as one hand disappeared into an inner pocket. With a low mumble, his head followed as he rummaged through its contents. “Ah. Here it is.” With flair, he brandished… 

“What is it?” she asked, accepting the palm-sized bird from him. Made of metal, it showed an exquisite attention to detail. Each and every feather appeared independent of all the others. What amazed her was how life-like it was. 

“Well, it’s for our trip, see?” Finnur said. “You wind up the gear here…” A blunt finger showed her the tiny knob on its base. “…and send it in the direction you wish it to go.”

Uh-huh. “It flies?” she asked doubtfully.

“Like the real thing,” he asserted with a measure of affront. Then a grin. “Learned from Gandalf the Gray himself about the fire-powder he uses for his fireworks. Now this here wee bird will fly thirty yards before the gears cause the flint to strike. Once that happens, he’ll explode quite nicely.” Then a frown. “Still haven’t mastered targeting.” Another bright smile. “But we’ve time on the road.”

Exploding birds? Her eyebrows kissed her hairline. One corner of her lips tugged upwards. 

“Lord Dwalin charged me with modifying your ‘cursed artifacts’, too,” he told her. So proud, Finnur sounded. “Should your Captain of the Haven’s overseers doubt their authenticity, they won’t by the time I’m done with them.” 

His smirk drew a laugh from her. Perhaps, she thought, the Black Company’s chances were better than she’d dreamed.

And perhaps…just perhaps…Akhora would not be needed in all her remorseless fury.

OoOoOo

__  
**The Misty Mountains  
23 December TA 3018**

A single pony thundered through the rarely used Twisting Pass, a byway through the Misty Mountains renown by those who knew of it for its treacherous drops and frequent rockfalls. 

Such was the rider’s urgency that the dwarf galloped along the perilous path without qualm. His lady wife, Nai, would skin him for this—aye, and for agreeing to Princess Dís’s request—but like the princess, the aged dwarf lord believed the mission underway imperative. So much so that he’d literally dropped everything he was doing and left Erebor with all haste and no escort. 

But the Lord of Kalil Kilmîn had seen for himself the threat building within the sands of Tovennen, hadn’t he now? Seen and sworn to see the foul people there repaid for daring to chain Durin’s folk. 

Hlein squinted as the blizzard-like conditions obscured much of his vision. _Foul weather._ ‘Twas as if the elements conspired against him. _They’ll not win._ He’d not endured the Bleeding Swamp to escape his captors only to give up now. 

Nay, this storm would not stop him. He only hoped he’d be fast enough to catch up with the rest of the party slated to infiltrate enemy lands before it was too late.

OoOoOo

__  
**Outskirts of Needlehole, The Shire  
28 December TA 3018**

Bifur sat beside Bofur and Dori as Saldís sparred with Lady Dís within the very edges of the evening campfire’s light. Both lasses measured each other with narrowed eyes and feral smiles. ‘Twas eerie, and that was no exaggeration. He for one had no intention of getting between the two.

That Dís had elected to join them had caused quite the uproar. The princess had not warned a soul of her intentions, and none of their “Black Company” had responded well. (They’d all agreed the name appropriate given the black garb Saldís and the men would wear to hide among the Black Númenóreans.) Dís was the last direct descendant of Durin, by Mahal, and had no business risking herself this way.

Dís’s response? A cool, “Aye, I _am_ the last Durin. On my sons’ graves, I am due vengeance. Do not think to gainsay me.”

That had been that. Not a one of them dared tell the dam otherwise. Not even Bifur’s friend and liege, Dwalin. 

Thirteen dwarves, there’d been, to set out to reclaim Erebor so long ago. Thirteen of them there were this time, too, if one included his Saldís, and Bifur adamantly maintained she counted as one of them. ‘Twas fitting to his mind. Eminently so, for since Dís’s proclamation, the dwarrowdam was not the only one to view their quest in such terms.

This, each member present from the Company of Thorin Oakenshield agreed, was for Saldís, aye, and their families, but also for Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli slain at the foot of the Lonely Mountain and Ori, Oin and Balin within Khazad-dum. Dís’s words had taken fire in each of their hearts. 

Vengeance. ‘Twas past time a reckoning was due. The Dark Lord would pay for all he’d stolen from Durin’s folk.

Across the way, Finnur sat with gears and screws arrayed before him and oil stains upon his coat and beard. The dwarf muttered from time to time, but it seemed to Bifur he saw more of the crown of the lad’s head than his face these last weeks. Bifur was not too certain what Finnur tinkered upon this day, but Bifur placed much hope on the outcome. The Black Company needed any advantage it could gain.

The healer, Goira, sat beside him, sorting through her medicinals, and Finnin’s boon companion, Ragan, beyond her. Cousins, they were, healer and warrior, and one had but to see the black hair upon their heads to suspect as much, although where Goira’s hair was silky and fell in soft ringlets, Ragan’s was so tightly coiled it formed a veritable lion’s mane around his head. The dwarf had two pairs of braids in his beard suspended from either side of his mustache, each full of iron beads etched with Khuzdul runes.

Ragan, Bifur was amused to note, was just as busy as his cousin. Crocheting. The warrior had muttered something about his wife wishing doilies for their bedchamber, and the dwarf used every opportunity to work on the intricate pieces. 

A commotion drew all eyes. The two brothers, Kyri and Kai, returned along with the eldest dwarf among them, white-haired and rosy-cheeked Dár. The aged hunter and cook shook his head in answer to the silent question they all harbored, and Bifur rubbed the flesh upon his forehead beneath the ax in frustration. The three had ventured down the road across Rushock Bog to Waymeet in search of word of the Rangers. No news had been gleaned. The dwarrow returned empty handed but for the slain deer tied to a branch suspended between Kyri and Kai’s shoulders. 

The brothers dropped the animal near the fire. Dár set to work with a cheerful little whistle, tossing his long white beard braids over his shoulders before quickly gutting and cleaning their dinner. Kai, the younger of the walnut-haired, thin-faced brothers, quickly divested himself of his staff before jumping in to help. 

Kai and Kyri reminded Bifur of Ori, they did, with their long features and quiet manners. The sad similarity was compounded each time the elder of the two, Kyri, pulled out his sketching journal and went to work drawing all and sundry at the conclusion of each meal. Though a skilled warrior, Kyri was a sculptor by trade, so each thing to spark his interest found its way into that journal. 

Bifur set his own spear aside and joined Kai and Dár in preparing dinner. He was no cook. Not so sad as Bofur, but then a wild animal could likely make the same claim. Still, it took little skill to chop up the herbs and tubers Saldís had collected earlier and add them to the pot. 

His gaze returned to his daughter. This journey had been good for her. She was more relaxed than he’d ever seen her, and slowly but surely, her smile emerged more frequently. 

Not, he thought wryly, that it was in evidence at the moment. Saldís and Dís continued their weapons practice, their dispositions lightening not one bit. The clash of steel upon steel rang out as Dís’s sword, Thorin’s old weapon Death-Bringer, collided with Saldís’s scimitar. Dís freed her sword by circling it under Saldís’s weapon. Saldís leaped backwards, her left hand uncoiling the whip around her waist. 

_Mahal._ Dís appeared to welcome the challenge, and Nori and Finnin paused in their chatter where they stood watching upon the sidelines. 

Bifur stifled a smirk. Finnin truly reminded him of Fíli from time to time. ‘Twas not the blond hair —though Finnin’s was close in shade to the lost prince’s—nor the beard as Finnin refused to braid his. Nay, it was the calm manner each would fold his arms, assess the scene, and more forward with a stubbornness extreme even for a Longbeard. ‘Twas no wonder to Bifur that the two had been good friends.

Such stubbornness would serve the lad well, Bifur thought. Finnin was on the hunt, and his prey was Bifur’s daughter. Finnin was subtle, and he was patient, but the lad had made his intentions clear to any of the unattached members of the Black Company that they set eyes upon Saldís at their own risk. That none had betrayed so much as a smidgen of interest mattered not a whit. Finnin protected the bond blossoming between the two like a starving wolf his meal. 

Saldís, for her part, was clueless. Bifur felt a stab of anger at how unprepared her past had left her to even recognize Finnin’s looks for what they were. She knew he watched her, but Bifur’s lassie must have dismissed Finnin’s attention as another facet of their friendship. He knew she believed Finnin had discarded all thoughts of courting after she’d told him of her barren state.

_Ye’ve much to answer for,_ Bifur directed to the scoundrel, Kimilzor. To drive a lass into destroying her fertility? Bifur had been horrified upon learning of it, aye, but proud, too. She’d brought harm to herself to prevent her own children from experiencing the terrible life she’d been living, and he could not but think the more of her for it. 

But Kimilzor, Bifur vowed, was a dead man walking. 

‘Twas only a matter of time now.

OoOoOo

__  
**Bindbole Woods, The Shire  
3 January TA 3019**

Saldís’s boots crunched down on crusty snow that reached to her knees. Each footstep was an effort, and her leg muscles ached long before the sun beamed overhead. In its own way, snow was as bad as sand, especially when like this—too frail to walk upon but too dense to simply slog through. 

She ignored the complaints of her body with one last muttered comment under her breath. Saldís detested snow. 

“What was that?” Nori sang out from behind her. 

She paused to frown over her shoulder. Each member of the group had taken turns trailblazing, and Saldís had that duty currently. Nori strolled with ease directly behind her followed by Adâd, Bofur, Dár, and Finnin. 

The six of them had left in the entirely-too-wee hours of morning after Dár had obtained word from a Bounder in Overhill the night before that a Ranger had been seen in the northern reaches of the Bindbole Woods. 

Sleep had been elusive. What would the Ranger think of her claims? Would they even find him? And if not, how long should her Black Company waste searching the Shire before pressing on without the Dunedain? Could her plan possibly work without the Rangers?

Though she had no proof, instinct told her time was running out like sand through an hourglass. Perhaps it was simply the product of her own antsy impatience. She wanted revenge. She wanted to destroy the land that had damaged large chunks of her soul, and the wait was growing intolerable to her. 

“I didn’t quite hear you, lass,” Nori continued. 

Her lip curled in a silent snarl. If Nori barked too far up his current tree, he was going to find himself pelted with snowballs when he took her place. Or better, she’d lead him over one of the slushy puddles that never failed to drag an exclamation from him. 

She tossed him a second glare, and Nori grinned. “I don’t believe my niece enjoys the snow, Umral.”

From behind her came not Adâd’s voice, but Uncle Bofur’s. “I do believe you may be right. Groused in her sleep about it last night, I’ll tell you. ‘Twas enough to deprive a dwarf of his beauty rest.”

Saldís rolled her eyes. _Puddle it is._ She scanned the land surreptitiously.

“Oh?” Nori asked in high spirits.

“She talks in her sleep?” Finnin this time in tandem with her adâd’s low, “No amount of rest can beautify _that_ face.”

Saldís smirked at her sire’s sally. 

“Now that,” Bofur pronounced, “was rude.”

_Puddle, puddle, puddle._ A gleam entered her eye that she knew her teams back in Tovennen would have recognized. Her poor dwarves, she knew, remained ignorant. What was it Nori had once said? She needed to tease more? Learn to laugh?

Well, the men had yet to be found, and she needn’t don her Akhora mindset just yet. She’d take Nori’s advice.

It didn’t take long to find what she sought. Between one footstep and the next, she spied the thin sheet of ice with its watery depression below a split-second before stepping down upon it. Saldís smirked to herself, shifting her foot to the side, and kicking a handful of snow over the ice to prevent Nori from spotting it. 

Onward, she trudged as if nothing had happened. _Wait for it._

Bare seconds later, a wet sloshing sound told her Nori had planted one foot right into the frigid waters. A spate of Khuzdul epithets rained down. 

With an innocent expression, she turned to her uncle, finding him glaring at the offending puddle while Bofur laughed. “Is something amiss, Uncle?” she asked in a sweet voice.

Silence. Wide eyes stared at her all agog. 

Then Bofur hooted and jogged to her side, grabbing her about the waist and swinging her around. “That’s our lass! I knew you had it in you!”

OoOoOo

Finnin’s chest continued to radiate with warmth a full hour after Saldís’s trick upon Nori.

By Durin, she had _played_ with one of them. It was something none had seen from her since her return. 

Saldís was healing. 

He’d noted the sudden change in her the day they’d left Thorin’s Hall. Saldís had abruptly begun to embrace life, hugging her cousin and others with an abandon that he’d both rejoiced to see…and feared. He could not help but wonder at the timing. Her actions struck him as those of a person bidding farewell to life, yet he did not detect futility lurking within her eyes. 

Mayhap she truly was ready to leave the past behind. 

Finnin decided to allow his worries to fade and focus upon enjoying as his black-haired lassie emerged from behind that wall of stoicism that had hidden her for too long. His lips curved upwards. By his beard, she glittered like the choicest of diamonds with her eyes full of sparkling mirth. 

‘Twas enough to leave a dwarf tripping over his own feet, an event that brought heat into his cheeks as Bofur witnessed his near tumble. The toymaker laughed, elbowed Finnin in the side, and murmured, “Having difficulty keeping your feet, laddie?”

At Finnin’s sharp glare, the older dwarf laughed once more before slowing his steps to fall back behind him, a whistle upon his lips. 

Finnin readjusted his grip upon his heavy ax. Then he laughed under his breath, shaking his head. Aye, well, sight of Saldís was worth falling over his feet. 

His gaze turned to Bifur. Though the older toymaker hid it from his daughter, such raw joy filled his face each time she laughed at Nori’s feigned complaints that it constricted Finnin’s chest. 

If naught else went their way, if their plans crumbled around them, this expedition had been worth all the gold in Erebor to Finnin’s mind. 

Saldís was healing.

OoOoOo

Near midday, the party entered the quaint hobbit town of Brockenborings. It was Saldís’s first true look at one of the hobbit villages, and she was stunned to find just how peaceful it was. Though snow blanketed the streets to ankle depth, a handful of hobbits ventured to the small market along the side of the main thoroughfare to purchase fresh breads, soups, and a host of crafted products.

More and more, she was finding the world she’d thought evil and blighted held pockets of such goodness that a part of her wished nothing more than to weep for her young self and all the children trapped in Caeldor’s brutal war machines. Many hobbits stared at them suspiciously, but when Bofur broached them with his merry grin, sniffing at the yeasty air with obvious enthrallment, the hobbits thawed. 

It was as Bofur haggled for a half dozen loaves of the wonderful smelling breads that Saldís, hanging back between Finnin and Bifur, heard it: “I told you welcoming those Ranger-folk would bring more outsiders down upon our heads.”

She tilted her head to the side, her body tensing enough that Finnin threw her a curious look. She lifted one finger. 

The male hobbit stood some twenty feet to her left, gossiping over a cart with colorful scarves and mittens. Her gaze caught on the goods, and she stared at them wistfully. The bulk of her life had been spent in uniforms of sandy-beige or blacks. Though Dori had made her clothes full of colors, she’d been reluctant to wear them outside of the home she shared with Bifur. They were too…too… _visible._ Saldís might sigh over the colors, but the Akhora part of her viewed them with distaste. An enemy would easily spot her in such things.

With a little head shake, she tore her gaze away. Muted colors would serve her best. Her respite was almost over, and best she resign herself to it. Danger would be her constant companion once again shortly. 

She listened to the small cluster of hobbits a bit longer, discovering the Ranger had headed to an inn sitting upon a steep hill along the southern edge of town in search of a local Bounder. Chills having nothing to do with the weather prickled up her spine, and her chin lifted as she inspected the inn in question. 

Protected along its back by a small cliff, the _Plough and Stars_ was a two-story structure with the round door that Saldís concluded from her walk though town to be typical of hobbit architecture. The few windows shared that same shape, and the roof curved in mimicry of the hills around them. 

And inside that strange, homey inn was the first of her mother’s people she’d ever meet outside the Den. 

A tug upon her adâd’s sleeve earned his attention. She jerked her chin upwards towards the inn. “He’s in there,” she said in a low voice.

Bifur’s grizzled eyebrows lifted. Concerned brown eyes met hers, then a gentle hand tugged upon her adoption braid. A none-too-subtle reminder.

A wash of affection swept over her in response, and she kissed his cheek. She loved this dwarf past bearing, and in a few short minutes, she’d have to allow more of her Akhora nature to reign. She refused to let her guard drop around the race of men.

With a reluctant dip of the head, his eyes slow to leave off scrutinizing her face, her adâd called the others and informed them of their destination. Nori and Bofur both perked up and led the way to the street curving up to the inn’s location, both juggling loaves of bread beneath their arms. The two boasted that hobbits were _almost_ a dwarf’s equal in the brewing of spirits. By the excitement upon their faces, the two were going to be sampling the inn’s supplies presently. 

“Do ye suppose we should stop in on Bilbo?” Bifur asked abruptly.

Bofur’s expression brightened. “He did say tea was at four and not to bother with the knocking.”

Bilbo? Saldís sought Bifur and found him with a half-smile upon his lips. Whatever worry had bothered him a heartbeat before seemed to have been dismissed. “The hobbit that helped us reclaim Erebor,” he murmured to her. “An old friend with a stout heart.”

Nori shook his head. “Already stopped at Bag End when asking about Rangers near Hobbiton. Bilbo’s not at home, and the hobbits thereabouts were quite wroth with our people, let me tell you. Old Bilbo pulled a vanishing act on his ‘eleventy-first’ birthday and no one’s seen a hair o’ him since. Worse, his nephew, Frodo’s, up and done the same. Seems all o’ Hobbiton blames us for Bilbo’s eccentricity. Said we corrupted him, if you can believe it.” 

Bifur snorted softly, but Bofur’s expression fell. 

In the back of Saldís’s mind, the knowledge gonged that her freedom to be vulnerable was about to be severely curtailed by the presence of unknown and untrusted men. Her vow to cherish every moment returning to her, she accelerated to catch up to her uncle. Refusing to hesitate, she threw arms around Bofur from behind, almost upsetting his grip on the bread. Squeezing him tight, she murmured, “I love you, Uncle.” 

The bright smile that beamed back at her, and his obvious surprise, warmed her better than the brightest fire. 

“Him? What about me?” Nori asked, his expression affronted though his pale eyes twinkled. 

“What of you?” Bofur returned. Pointing to himself with one of the loaves of bread, Bofur said, “I’m her favorite uncle.”

“You?” Nori sputtered. 

Saldís slowed until Bifur reached her, a smile dancing over his lips. She was not about to get between her bantering uncles.

“Smart, Gêdul. Very smart,” Bifur said in an undertone.

She shared a private smirk with him and gently tugged upon his braid. “I had a good teacher.” Then she winced, her joy fading as other, harder lessons played through her mind. 

They reached the front door, and Nori dipped his head to pass through the entryway first. One by one they followed, Saldís at Finnin’s back with Bifur behind her. She exhaled slowly. 

The interior of the _Plough and Stars_ was warm and cheery. A big fire crackled within the hearth situated along the far wall to their right surrounded by hobbit-sized, upholstered chairs. Walls of pale yellow brought a warmth to the cozy inn that belied the frigid weather outside. Paintings of pastoral scenes dotted their surfaces, and rich mahogany tables covered in checkered tablecloths were spaced evenly throughout the large room.

The inn was not empty as she’d anticipated. Hobbits sat here and there, many laughing and gorging themselves upon the truly impressive portions of food set before them. Diminutive mugs cluttered the remaining table space, many bearing foaming caps. The merry atmosphere strongly reminded her of celebrations as a child in Thorin’s Hall: noisy and joyous.

Saldís’s gaze turned to the dark wooden bar dominating the central area of the inn. It was there that she located her quarry. 

The Ranger perched precariously upon a short stool at the bar, sipping from a small mug as he nodded at whatever it was the pudgy, curly-haired hobbit next to him said. Saldís lingered just inside the door, her attention locked upon the man. He looked exactly like the sons of Numenor she was too familiar with. He appeared to be in his sixties, the equivalent of mid thirties among common men, with sandy brown hair worn to his shoulders, golden brown eyes, and the scruffiest smattering of whiskers upon his cheeks.

That alone allowed her to contain the malice boiling through her veins upon sight of him. Black Númenóreans could grow beards, but none did. Even going about with whiskers was unheard of, for among them, whiskers and beards were a sign of “tainted”, common blood—a presumed indicator of weakness. 

_You will need to change your grooming habits if you are to be of use to us,_ she thought at the man. 

It was her uncle, her blessedly wonderful uncle, who sauntered over to the pair and plopped down at the man’s side. Bofur tipped his hat to the Ranger and hobbit, bestowed his cheeky grin upon them, and ordered a beverage from the frazzled-looking barkeep. 

Nori and Dár joined Bofur in short order, but she hung back with Bifur and Finnin. Saldís watched as both Bounder and Ranger eyed their group with sudden speculation. The Ranger’s honey eyes drifted from dwarf to dwarf but halted upon spotting Saldís. What he made of a woman traveling with a bunch of dwarves, he didn’t betray by so much as a flick of an eyelash. 

“Let Bofur speak with him,” Bifur murmured. 

Though she had her reservations, Saldís nodded. Should the man prove dangerous, Bofur was a capable warrior, and more, Nori was close at hand. Though she never sparred with family members—and vowed never to do so—she’d seen Nori in action. He could be frighteningly dangerous when sufficiently motivated. 

Saldís, Bifur, and Finnin elected to seat themselves at a table not far from the hearth. Less than a minute later, a curvy hobbit woman with silver curls bustled to their table, cheerfully listed the foods available and offered to fetch them something to drink. By mutual, silent agreement, Saldís and Bifur let Finnin do the talking—Bifur for obvious reasons and Saldís from sheer lack of familiarity. 

She’d never dined “out” before. In Tovennen, she’d collected her meals from the mess hall. In the Blue Mountains, she’d wished nothing more than to remain in the privacy of her quarters or her family’s.

The Bounder at the bar departed soon after their meals arrived, and Saldís’s mouth watered at the succulent smells of roast lamb with potatoes and carrots. The plate was filled to overflowing, more than twice what she could possibly eat…though after the first whiff, Saldís determined to try. She picked up knife and fork and dug in, moaning at the first wondrous taste.

It earned her an oddly intent look from Finnin. She lifted one eyebrow, but he shook his head, a small smile upon his face. The blond then took a healthy swig of ale before tucking into his own meal. 

The three were in the process of demolishing their fare when Bofur rose with the Ranger, Nori and Dár. The four joined them, claiming seats from elsewhere and sitting themselves around the square table. 

Saldís chewed slowly, sparing a thought to wish Bofur had waited a few minutes longer so that she could finish her meal in peace. Such incredible food deserved nothing less than one’s full attention. 

Bofur remained standing long enough to introduce each of them to the Ranger. “This here is Bifur son o’ Balfur, Finnin son o’ Finnar, and my own niece, Saldís.” Finnin and Bifur inclined their heads in acknowledgment. 

Saldís meanwhile frowned at Finnin when he chased her hand away from her scimitar’s hilt beneath the table. Blue eyes met gray. The silent message that she was not alone calmed her sudden unease, but she still twisted her lips at him. _Interfering dwarf._

Finnin winked. 

With eyes narrowed, a filament of humor hitting her, she surreptitiously kicked the dwarf under the table…and earned Nori’s shocked expression instead. By the Valar, truly? She’d missed? Finnin’s shoulders started shaking with repressed laughter. 

“Halros, son of Halbarad,” the Ranger said, returning her to the matter at hand. Inwardly, she scolded herself for permitting Finnin to distract her so very thoroughly. “Tell me, Master Dwarves, why it is you’ve sought me this day? What can a simple Ranger do for you?”

Simple. Saldís snorted to herself at that nonsense and wiped her hands upon her cloth napkin. 

“Mordor.” Bofur threw that out casually before spearing a bite of lamb from Bifur’s plate and chomping away with clear enjoyment. 

The Ranger stiffened noticeably. “And what business do you have with Mordor?” Halros asked in a tone akin to a quiet thrust of the dagger. 

Letting her Akhora-self dictate her actions, Saldís halted Bofur with a curt slash of one hand. Leaning forward in her seat, elbows upon the table, she said, “Agents of Mordor calling themselves Black Númenóreans were found spying upon both Erebor and Dale in March of this year. Spying for Sauron.”

Those honey-brown eyes hardened to brittle ice as they panned her way. “Then they lie. The Black Númenóreans faded from existence over a thousand years ago. They are simply men with delusions of grandeur.” He dismissed the idea with raised palms. “Mordor affects us all. The Rangers cannot protect more lands than the ones we already patrol. I’m sorry, but your journey has been in vain.”

As he rose from his chair, Saldís asked, “Tell me, does the name Fandes mean anything to you?” By the instant bunching of the muscles within his back and shoulders, the answer was a resounding yes. He slowly turned around. 

Saldís ignored his climbing hostility. Letting more of her Akhora-self reign, she said, “Berúthiel was packed up on a ship and exiled from Gondor. Your vaunted king cared nothing about her fate beyond ridding himself of an unpleasant mistake.”

Halros reclaimed his seat slowly, his eyes intent. “Go on.”

“The former queen of Gondor sailed south,” Saldís said, hands circling her mug. A feigned calm. Should the Ranger reach for a weapon, she’d blind him with her ale before he knew what she was about. “She received succor among the Corsairs of Umbar. Whether she foresaw her people’s future, we can debate, but upon arriving in Umbar, she suddenly moved a segment of her people into hiding. Those left behind faded over the following centuries.” She splayed one hand. “The Black Númenórean deception was complete.” Then out of fairness, “Berúthiel’s followers declined despite her efforts, but they did not cease to be.”

Halros weighed her words. It was evident upon his face. “What has this to do with Fandes? How do you know that name?”

Saldís’s lips quirked in an unpleasant smile. “The Black Númenóreans heard the Dark Lord’s call long before Gondor spied the stacks of smoke rising once again from Mordor. Their numbers were insufficient to the Dark Lord’s purposes, so he commanded their leaders, the Duumvirate, to change that…and to strengthen their bloodlines. The Black Númenóreans turned to their kin in the north as the solution to both problems.” Saldís smoothed one finger around the rim of her mug. “They stole Fandes along with a score of daughters of Ithilien for breeding purposes.” 

Halros’s face turned as rigid as a statue. His eyes blazed.

Saldís pressed on, her hand dropping from the mug. “An army of them, son of Halbarad. Under Sauron’s banner, they train in secret in one of their reclaimed cities hidden in the deserts of Tovennen. There, they drill their children in the arts of war and sorcery.”

“How,” he asked again, his voice hard, “do you know this? What proof have you?”

“Fandes was my mother,” she said. “I was raised by them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: the names of the Gray Company and the secret Dunedain city are from Standing Stones Games' Lord of the Rings Online. I've played the game so long, I couldn't rename those men. The devs and writers there did a superb job not only giving the Gray Company names and faces, but fleshing them out in a way that makes the player love each one.


	24. A Gathering of Allies

_**Esteldin, North Downs  
5 January TA 3019** _

Dusk painted the sky in purples and pinks when Halros’s lathered mount galloped into the hidden Dunedain settlement of Esteldin. The horse’s sides convulsed like bellows with each breath, and no wonder. Halros himself was bleary-eyed with exhaustion. A trip that should have taken three days had been condensed into two. 

He rode past the crumbled gates of what appeared from the exterior to be the ruins of a city once belonging to the kingdom of Arnor. Esteldin resembled nothing so much as an abandoned relic of the past, and that impression had protected Halros’s people for generations. 

Narrow, shadow-darkened roads closed in around him. To either side, crumbling stone structures loomed two and three stories into the air, each looking for all the world as if a stiff wind would bring it crashing down upon the street below. It was an impression the Rangers’ masons had done much to enhance while subtly shoring up each against such a possibility. 

It was only as his steed cantered deeper into the ancient city that cracked roads clogged with debris gave way to restored pavement bracketed by buildings showing obvious signs of repair. Wooden shutters covered the windows, and solid doors hung in door frames. Stairs that time had eroded to gravel had been replaced with newer, sharp-edged stone. 

There was life here, but muted. Not so much as a flicker of light illuminated the streets. Nothing to betray the Rangers’ presence.

Halros directed his horse towards the most heavily populated section of town, weaving among dark-cloaked figures going about their evening errands. None impeded him as he cantered straight toward the misshapen structure serving as his father’s headquarters near the center of the city. 

Reaching his destination, he hauled back on the reins. The horse half-reared upon its hind legs with a low squeal. 

A fellow Ranger emerged from the thick darkness now ruling the streets. “Halros, we feared you would not return in time,” his close brother-in-arms, Medlinor, said as he rushed to take hold of the reins. The golden-haired Ranger’s brilliant green eyes were muted in the scant light, but Halros thought he detected a note of strain within the other man’s stance.

Halros half-tumbled from the saddle, catching his balance upon the saddle horn. Then with concern, he echoed, “In time?” 

“You returned due to the message we sent, did you not?”

Halros shook his head shortly. “I received no message,” he informed his friend. “Much has happened, Medlinor. I must report to my father.” Halros paused. “Is Barhador or his son, Thannor, about?”

Medlinor’s head turned until facing the Dunedain council chambers. “Barhador is with your father,” he said, his chin jerking towards the building. “Should I fetch Thannor?”

Halros shook his head. “Not as of yet. Take care of Anduin for me?”

The other Ranger patted the horse’s neck and nodded. “Of course.”

Halros left the stallion to Medlinor’s care and jogged up a short flight of granite steps to a pale wooden door attached to the blocky edifice. At one time, the building had been three stories, but the Dunedain had repaired only the first two and shored up the jagged crenelation formed by the broken third. An artifice, and one they used well. From a distance, that third story increased the notion that the ruins here were both dangerous and empty of anything of value.

Lifting the latch, wondering what else might be amiss—what reason could his father have of summoning him home?—Halros strode into the small antechamber formed by thick panels of fabric on all sides. The low rumble of masculine voices reached his ears.

With the door’s closure, darkness enveloped him. The curtained antechamber ensured not a filament of the light flickering within escaped out the front door. None of the Rangers took chances where Esteldin’s secrecy was concerned. Their families’ lives depended upon it.

Brushing one curtain aside, he entered the spacious room beyond. Though Medlinor’s words had warned him his father would not be alone, he tripped to discover his father standing at the head of the long table dominating the space…a table surrounded by many of the senior-most, active Rangers recalled from their posts throughout Eriador. Truly, something had happened to bring them all back to Esteldin. 

Halbarad straightened from his hunched-over position above the maps strewn across the table, and the rumble of discussion stopped at Halros’s abrupt entrance. By the light of the lanterns scattered throughout the long, windowless room, faces grizzled and hardened by years of hardship panned his way. 

His father—the Dunedain leader in Chieftain Aragorn’s absence—spoke in a voice rendered unnaturally deep from a wound decades past. “Halros, you arrived in time.” His father’s relief was palpable. 

“I come with word, Father,” Halros said. “Medlinor informed me I was summoned, but no missive reached me.”

Halbarad and a number of the others responded with sharpened interest. “Has some danger threatened the Shire?” his father demanded. 

Halros lifted one palm. “All is well in the Shire. I have urgent news, but it has nothing to do with the halflings,” Halros said. 

Halbarad’s left eyebrow winged upwards. “Oh?”

Halros’s gaze slid to the side, swiftly locating a contemporary of his father’s, Barhador. Though one hundred and twenty-three years old, the Dunedain warrior was far from feeble. In truth, he looked younger than Halbarad, a not-too-shocking fact given Barhador’s purer bloodline. Most of the man’s direct kin lived to their one hundred and seventieth year.

The angles of Barhador’s face suddenly looked awfully familiar. The cheekbones, the nose… In that moment, that last shreds of doubt Halros harbored of Saldís’s story vanished. Barhador’s hair was dark brown sprinkled with gray and his face weathered, but in too many ways, Saldís resembled this uncle of hers, even to the widow’s peak dipping his hairline to a point. 

Barhador’s blue-gray eyes turned quizzical at Halros’s unwarranted regard. “Halros?” the other Ranger asked.

Halros took a deep breath. “I have word, and it has bearing on your family, Barhador. I know what happened to Fandes.” Shocked exclamations filled the room. “The women missing from Ithilien as well. As we feared, the two tragedies were linked.”

OoOoOo

Barhador listened to Halros’s tale with growing shock. Long had he sought word of his family’s fate. Though he’d mourned them as dead for decades, still a shred of hope had remained. To know the truth at last was both sweet relief and another dose of heavy grief.

 _Lady Nienna have mercy._ His aged and failing mother, Aendes, would be heartbroken to have confirmation at last and…

His blood chilled. Fandes had borne a daughter? “Where? Where is the child?” he demanded, interrupting the other man without hesitation. 

Halros’s eyes met his unflinching. “Brockenborings. With the dwarves who sought me out.”

“How did this come to be?” Prestadir asked.

Halros directed to the other Ranger, “Three of the dwarves I met found Fandes on the roadside in the Lonelands.” Halros spread his hands. “She escaped her captors. They delivered Fandes’s babe and adopted her when Fandes died of childbirth.”

Before Barhador could shoot off his next, burning question, Halbarad quietly commanded them all to silence. “Go on, Halros,” Halbarad said. 

Barhador’s head dropped into one hand. His sister, buried in an unmarked grave by the side of the road? _I promise, Fandes, you will have a fitting resting place. I will see to it myself._ He listened with growing grief and fury to Halros’s words about Fandes’s daughter and what had befallen her as a child. Her cold recital to Halros of the grooming she’d received along with the fates of the children like her lifted the hairs on the nape of his neck. 

Children. _Their_ children, sons and daughters of the line of kings, reared to be Sauron’s servants. The thought made him ill. Aragorn would be furious to learn of this.

The next shock lifted his head. Halros outlined the plan Saldís had concocted along with her adopted family. Barhador’s skin prickled. The timing could not be coincidence. Eru, it seemed, provided hope for His children, warning them of this unforeseen danger and providing a path to neutralizing it.

The minute Halros finished, Halbarad informed his son, “I have news as well.” Halbarad’s arms folded before his chest, and his chin descended an inch or two. “We are needed at Aragorn’s side. If you’d been but a day longer, you would have found Esteldin emptied of all but a handful of our Rangers.”

Halros’s eyes widened. “The war begins?”

Halbarad nodded soberly. “So we believe. Our time has come.”

“Aragorn will expect our ancient foe to raise up armies of orcs and men,” bald-headed Calenglad, he who had been assigned to keep watch on the tombs of their forefathers in Annuminas, said as he leaned back in his chair, one fist lightly bumping the wooden arm a few times. “But not such a twist of fate as this.”

“Making it all the more imperative we reach our chieftain’s side,” Halbarad said. “Aragorn needs to know about this new threat.” 

“We cannot leave the Black Númenóreans unchecked,” red-haired Amlan interjected, rubbing his square jaw. “An army of sorcerers? Their animal spies are danger enough, but they are the least of their skills. Gondor is not prepared for an assault such as they will bring.”

“Few would be,” Calenglad murmured.

“We may be too late to avert it,” Candaith said. Younger than most of them, the chestnut-haired Ranger who’d stood watch in the Lonelands had a reputation for wisdom and clear thought. He set folded hands down upon the table, his entire demeanor one of furious thought.

“If the Black Númenórean army joins and marches with orcs, Easterlings and Southrons, we might as well throw up the white flag. We will be destroyed,” Golodir said softly. The worn, gray-haired Ranger rubbed his face. “Angmar is not deserted as was believed. My team did as best we could to thwart the rise of a great force from that quarter, but our success was mixed at best.” He pounded a fist on the table, the chancy temper that had ruled him since returning from Angmar flaring without warning. “We cannot leave children to be reared into more adversaries, much less the children of our own women.”

Barhador leaned back in his seat and exhaled slowly. _Dearest Eru._

His mind was set. Unless forbidden by Halbarad, Saldís would have at least one Dunedain aiding in her mission. Barhador would ride for Brockenborings at first light. He could no more turn his back upon Fandes’s child than one of his own. 

_The dwarves’ timetable has been moved up._

Halros had informed the Rangers that Saldís and the dwarves of Thorin’s Hall intended to travel to Dol Amroth to seek passage to Umbar. With the war beginning, they could ill afford the months it would take to reach Dol Amroth by foot. 

No, despite the legendary discord between dwarves and elves, this venture needed a port nearer at hand and the fleetest of ships. And that, Barhador knew, would require the aid of Lord Círdan the Shipwright, ruler of the Gray Havens. The Teleri elf knew more of ships than any other walking Middle Earth. If any could aid them, it would be he. 

Long into the night, the leaders of the Dunedain deliberated, and Barhador quietly scratched out a missive outlining the dire need of the elves’ assistance to Lord Círdan. With each word, he prayed, _Lord Manwë, Wind-King, grant this message swift winds to carry it, for our need is dire._ Barhador determined to commandeer the fastest of Esteldin’s messenger birds as soon as the meeting concluded. Eru grant it encountered no difficulties. 

It was going on midnight when the Rangers of the North finalized their plans. Thirty would ride after their chieftain, with luck collecting the sons of Elrond along the way. Other than the few who would be charged with defending Esteldin and the Rangers’ families, the rest would fly to Brockenborings. 

The men rose from their seats and rushed to their individual preparations. Barhador knew there would be no sleep for himself this night.

Before the sun rose, the Gray Company departed with all speed to find and protect Aragorn. Led by Halbarad, the uniformly gray-clad party included some of their most experienced warriors: Halros, Candaith, Golodir, Andreg, Saeredon, Prestadir, and more. Friends, one and all. 

Barhador headed the second, smaller contingent destined for Brockenborings. With him journeyed his own son, Thannor, who was but five years younger than Fandes’s daughter, and Thannor’s eldest son, Berenor. 

Barhador wiped the grit of a sleepless night from his eyes. Other than himself and his son, the only two members of his group with over sixty years to their names were Himon and Medlinor. So young, the others. Not children—no Dunedain would countenance such a travesty—but Rangers in their twenties and thirties. All were strong and skilled, but they lacked the seasoning the Gray Company possessed. Anuon, Glinor, Thalon. Erynor, Calenor, Orodon. 

Eleven seemed a pitifully small force to infiltrate and destroy an enemy none had dreamed existed. 

Barhador kissed his mother, wife, and daughter before mounting his shaggy, mountain-bred steed, cognizant of Thannor bidding farewell to his own wife and younger children not far away. He lifted the hood of his old and faded brown cloak over his head. Craning around, Barhador’s heart clenched to see the many women, children and elderly left with little protection by the departure of the Gray Company and his own. 

_Protect them,_ he prayed. Barhador’s daughter, Esgaril, would lead them from Esteldin to the more defensible caves along the eastern borders of the North Downs should it become necessary. He had to trust in her wisdom to see their kin through these perilous times.

His team mounted their horses. Unlike the Gray Company, they wore neither uniforms nor the star-shaped brooches declaring their allegiances. Where they were going, secrecy would be integral to any hope of success. 

Ten faces stared back at him, each face chiseled with determination. They were trained. They were committed. 

He hoped they were ready.

OoOoOo

****  
_Brockenborings, The Shire  
7 January TA 3019_

Saldís paced the main floor of the inn with fraying patience, her hand tight about the hilt of her scimitar. The knowledge that her kindred could arrive any minute left her unable to settle. She was a Weapon, by Kimilzor’s black heart. She’d waged battle and stared death in the face. How, she snarled to herself, could she be jittery? 

Yet, she was. It little helped that the pesky, never-silent fear now whispered slyly that the Black Company was too late. It painted pictures in her mind of vast armies sweeping across the lands of Gondor like a tsunami of Corsair lore. 

Her hand squeezed about the hilt of her weapon, drew it an inch or two, then slammed it back home into its sheath. She almost spat out a choice Khuzdul epithet she’d heard from Nori, for she had no way to determine if the feeling was true or solely the product of her own fears. 

Saldís glared out the big, round window near the inn’s door, so offended by the scene outside that she itched to kick something. A freak winter storm had settled over Brockenborings that morning and showed no sign of relenting, trapping the reassembled Black Company indoors but for Dár. The white-haired hunter had smiled his merry smile, told them he could not abide to remain indoors, and ventured out to (as he told it) keep watch for the Rangers should they risk travel this day.

How he expected to see anything mystified her. Each time she peered out the window, the white haze limited her vision to a matter of yards. 

“Saldís? You’re wearing a rut into the floor, lass,” came her uncle Bofur’s voice. Pausing, she found him leaning back in his seat, nursing a mug of ale in his hands. His lips quirked in a lopsided grin. Dori, Nori and Bifur halted their game, too, and twisted in their chairs. 

_Amazing,_ she thought with a soft snort. She’d believed only an orc invasion could interrupt the four-way, hotly competitive game of _Hoarded Treasure_ they’d initiated just after breakfast.

“The floor will be fine,” she said, baring teeth in a silent snarl. 

Showing them her back, she stubbornly resumed her pacing. Each impact as boot connected with wooden floor echoed hollowly, and not solely due to the frustrated heaviness of each tread. The inn was empty but for the Company and the hobbit couple who owned the establishment, and the two hobbits had made themselves scarce hours ago. The couple checked upon their guests periodically but seemed content to put their own hairy feet up in the privacy of their quarters.

“Leave her be,” Princess Dís interjected from the plush seat tucked in the opposite corner of the room. With feet settled upon an ottoman and a book in hand, the dwarrowdam was the very image of repose. “Wearing herself out is likely the only way she’ll sleep this night.” 

Though Dís’s words were light, Saldís read the censure there. Saldís was tiring herself for no real reason. 

Unfortunately for Saldís, she could not convince her body of that. Her feet continued onward without her permission. 

Beruthiel’s accursed _cats,_ she hated snow. If not for the dratted stuff, she could have dragged Finnin or one of the others outdoors to release her frustration in weapons play. With the snow, pacing was all that was left to her. 

Well, that or pulling out her flute and joining Goira and Kai where they sat upon a settee catty-corner to Dís. Both had been engrossed in their musical instruments—pibgorn and lute respectively—for the better part of the afternoon. 

_Not that._ The notion of piping out tunes only irritated Saldís more. She wished for action, not frippery. She relaxed her hold on the scimitar, and her fingers flexed repetitively, working out a slight ache from grasping the pommel too hard. 

Thought of music-making turned her thoughts to Finnin, for he had accompanied the two musicians for a time on a small drum he carried. He’d lasted a quarter hour before moseying over to where his brother sat at the table closest to the door. Though Finnin appeared relaxed and filled with boundless patience, she notice his eyes often strayed to the wintry scene outside the big round window, too. 

Like herself, he was not one for sitting idle for long stretches, she thought. 

_Unlike Finnur._ Saldís glared sourly at the back of the red-head’s skull. So long as her childhood friend had room to tinker with his baffling array of mechanical ingredients, he seemed able to sit all day and never rise for aught but the chamberpot and a bite to eat. Finnur’s mind was a frighteningly focused thing. 

She supposed she should be happy that mind was working on their behalf. Currently, he had one of the “artifacts” created by their sculptor, Kyri, before him. What Finnur was doing to it, she wasn’t certain, but he’d insisted he could ensure any Corsair to inspect it would get the scare of his life. 

Despite her impatience, a candle’s flicker of amusement touched her. It only intensified when she detected a low hum emanating from the inventor’s throat as she passed the two brothers in her endless circuit across the wooden floor. Finnin must have found the humming equally entertaining, for he smirked at his younger brother, arms folded casually across his chest. 

Finnin’s grin dimmed as his gaze lifted to her. “Sit, Dushin-Mizim.”

“No.” Sit, and she risked bursting from her skin with frustration. 

_Was_ Sauron marching? She rubbed her arms, brow furrowed as she fretted over the matter. _There is little to be done,_ the more pragmatic side of her snapped impatiently. _Pacing yourself into exhaustion does no one any good._

She knew that, and she’d often scolded troops under her command for this very thing, yet she could not rein in her nerves. It defied belief. 

Her steps reached the back of the large room where two more of their company worked quietly. Ragan crocheted with a tool that looked absurdly small in his big hands, and Kyri drew in his sketchpad. The series of coffee-brown braids containing Kyri’s beard were once again dusted with coal dust, and his narrow face had a spattering of fingerprint smudges on it. 

It seemed everyone could relax but Saldís. _I should have gone with Dár._ Any discomfort would be better than this. The forced inactivity was maddening. 

Saldís halted in her tracks, muscles along her jaw twitching.

“Don’t be thinking it,” Bifur grunted from a distance away, his eyes never lifting from the game spread out before him. “Ye stay inside, lass.”

She frowned, knowing he was right. Little could she afford frostbite. But this waiting! By all the orcs in Mordor, it was tortuous.

The inn’s heavy round door squeaked open and snow flurries blew inside. Dár stepped through the aperture, stomping on the welcome mat to shake snow from his boots. 

He shoved his snow-crusted fur hood from his head and pawed more snow from his white beard. Only then did his head turn her way, and his expression wiped all other concerns from Saldís’s mind. 

_They have arrived._ Dár’s round face with its ruddy cheeks was devoid of his perpetual smile. His blue eyes, so very vivid against the backdrop of his pale skin and white hair, gleamed with triumph. The rest of the company must have read the same message, for each abandoned his or her project and stood.

Exultation. Anticipation.

Anger. Loathing.

Saldís’s face smoothed of all expression as bodies both taller and leaner filed in through the door, each stooping down in turn. Each was dressed in clothes of browns and greens that had seen hard use, and to a man, they were heavily armed. She spotted bows and quivers over more than one shoulder, and not a one had less than two blades in sight. Scrutinizing them, she was certain they were as equipped as herself with a veritable stockpile of hidden weaponry to keep themselves alive. 

They ranged in age from their twenties to three who appeared near the century mark. All had the patrician features that so dominated the sons of Numenor: strong jaws, broad brows, and aquiline noses. Though skin tones varied, and hair colors, there was a clarity of the skin and eyes that betrayed their heritage. 

By Kimilzor’s black heart. They looked so much like the people who had made her life a living nightmare that Saldís’s nerves prickled. Before she was cognizant of her intent, she’d crossed the room and planted herself protectively before her adâd and uncles. A blind action. An instinctive one. 

Bifur touched her hand, a warning in his eyes. “Gêdul?” he asked softly. 

He returned her to herself. _Warg dung._ She shook off the emotions sight of the men had spawned within her. “They look much like them,” she explained in an equally low voice. Taking a deep breath, she let that automatic tension drain from her. The resemblance had surprised her, and it shouldn’t have, for hadn’t she been counting on it to see this plan done? 

Her next breath was even easier when she noted the differences between the Black Númenóreans and these men…and there were differences. Many of the Dunedain had whiskers upon their cheeks, and two sported actual beards, though they were nothing compared to the dwarves’. No earrings marred their right earlobes, and not a one wore monochromatic black or beige. Though their carriage betrayed confidence, there was no haughty superiority, cruelty or avarice to be found upon their faces. 

Small things, but they allowed her to loosen her grip on her sword.

OoOoOo

Bifur eyed his daughter carefully. By the strain that had been upon her face a moment before, the likeness between these Rangers and the monsters who’d stolen his lass away must been strong, indeed. For two long beats of his heart, he’d feared his daughter would actually draw that sword of hers.

He must not have been the only one, for Bofur stepped to Saldís’s side and in a loud whisper said, “Saldís?” Bofur waited until her head turned his way with marked reluctance, his dark eyes bubbling with laughter. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, lass. You’re almost as frightening as Dwalin when you get that look in your eye.”

Bifur was gratified to see a tiny smile appear upon her face—Bofur’s aim, he was sure. “Almost?” she asked lightly, her bonny gray eyes gleaming with challenge.

Bofur nodded emphatically, rocking upon his heels. 

Nori peered at her from around Bofur’s girth. “Eh, don’t be too discouraged, lass. Dwalin’s been terrorizing underlings with that glower o’ his for two centuries.”

Saldís’s smile grew. “I’ll have to work on that, then.”

“Aye, you do that,” Nori said with a wink. “’Bout time someone gave Dwalin a taste of his own medicine.”

By Mahal, had Nori truly just challenged Saldís into attempting to intimidate Dwalin? Bifur reached beyond both daughter and cousin to soundly whack his friend upside the head. Dori followed suit, slapping Nori’s arm.

OoOoOo

Saldís silently thanked her uncles and father for the moment of levity. Much calmer, she returned her attention to the men clustering near the inn’s door. When her inspection reached a man with green eyes as exquisitely piercing as Kimilzor’s, she was grateful again.

 _He is not Kimilzor._ His tanned face revealed curiosity and intelligence, but none of Kimilzor’s darkness. _They are not my enemy._ Perhaps if she reminded herself often enough, she would begin to believe it. 

With a slow exhale, she continued looking over the men she needed to join the Black Company, assessing each in turn and finding reason for confidence in them. No, such a preliminary looking over was never perfect, but what she saw gave her hope. Appearances could be deceiving, but by the way they carried themselves, these men were well-trained. Not a one had the nervous bluster upon his face that was a sure indicator of a novice.

_Or one Weapon with an appalling case of the jitters,_ she sneered to herself. 

One Ranger took a step forward. _Their leader,_ she concluded. If pressed, she’d have named him the eldest of the bunch. He wore no device of office that she could see, only battered leather boots, trousers of a muted olive green and a tunic of the same shade. A thick brown cloak hung from his shoulders over a goat-skin jacket of walnut brown. Though his skin remained supple, lines framed his eyes and lips, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. 

The man’s deep-set, blue-gray eyes scanned the room in one short glance. His assessment halted the instant he spotted Saldís. From the intent expression upon his face, one both cautious and hopeful, he’d been seeking her. She noted the widow’s peak upon his brow and the razor-straight nose and cheekbones so reminiscent of her own reflection. 

A surge of unease washed over her. She knew nothing of this man, and she did not want him taking an interest in her, yet a suspicion lifted its head. Their resemblance could be no accident. 

_Orc spit._ This, she had not planned upon. Could she really have kin among them? Her skin crawled with instinctive denial, but logic said it was possible. Fandes could not have sprung up from the ground without parents. Why had Saldís not considered it before? 

_Idiot,_ she berated herself. 

Lady Dís strode forward to greet the men, pulling the leader’s attention from Saldís. Nori murmured something to Bifur, and Saldís heard her adâd grunt noncommittally in return. A big palm came to rest upon the small of her back. Adâd’s. She didn’t doubt it for an instant. Had he, too, noted the physical similarities between his daughter and this Ranger?

“Welcome, Men of the North.” The dwarrowdam inclined her head regally. “Princess Dís, daughter of Thrain, at your service. We thank you for coming.”

If the leader was surprised to hear of Dís’s rank, he gave no sign of it. His head dipped in respect, and he said, “An honor, Lady Dís. I am Barhador, son of Erthor.” 

“You came at great speed,” Dís said. “And risk.”

“Time was of the essence. I doubt I need to tell you how alarming we found your revelations.” The man’s gaze slid to Saldís. It seemed he addressed her as he said, “We believe the war is beginning. If that is true, your mission is not merely important but crucial. As Halros likely told you, news of the Black Númenóreans caught us off guard. We had no inkling any survived.”

Saldís tensed to hear her worst fears repeated by another source. _Curse you, Sauron._ Why could he not have delayed one more year? “He marches?” she managed.

“Let us hope not,” Barhador said. With a glance at Dís, he moved deeper into the inn, his men doing likewise. Those with gear and packs lowered them to the floor, unburdening themselves. Barhador took a step towards Saldís, his face intent. 

Saldís bristled. Only Bifur’s grasp kept her hand from her weapon. 

By Kimilzor’s blackened heart, what was wrong with her? The man’s hands never neared his weapons, yet her heart hammered against her breastbone with a sudden sense of danger. She’d best get over this nonsense, and fast. 

Finnin intercepted the Ranger, blocking his path without seeming to. “I imagine you could use some food after such a journey.”

Bofur joined him. “Aye, and I’ll wager you have questions for us.”

The man did not acknowledge them with so much as a word. His face contorted with strong emotion, his gaze never leaving Saldís. In a rough voice, he said, “You look so much like your mother.”

Her mother? _Orc spit._ The suspicion was true. It had to be. Such a mixture of emotions surged at his words that Saldís found herself groping for her adâd’s hand like a dwarfling. 

Bifur and Bofur exchanged glances.

“Her mother?” Nori asked. 

The man’s smile was bittersweet. “My sister. My only sister.” To Saldís, “Your grandmother is too frail to travel or she would be here, Saldís. She sends her greetings. We are saddened to know Fandes’s fate at last, but we welcome you to our family.” 

She felt frozen in place. By words, this Dunedain had declared himself her uncle. 

_No,_ her gut protested. Bofur, Bombur, Nori and Dori were her uncles. Suffia was her ugmil’amad, not some unknown woman.

The man pressed a hand to his heart. “On my honor, I swear if I’d known I had a niece or that she was in need of protection or rescue, there is not a power in Middle Earth that would have stopped me from finding you.”

So sincere, he sounded. But Saldís had spent eight decades of her life learning great evil lurked in the hearts of men. Blood pounded an angry tempo through her veins. “I have a family,” she bit out. “I need no other.”

OoOoOo

Dís tapped fingers against Death-Bringer’s pommel.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Bofur interjected, a comical dismay upon his face. 

_Valar bless that dwarf and his ready tongue._ Instead of the insult the men rightly should have taken, at Bofur’s words, many an eye crinkled in wry acknowledgment. 

Dís had to hand it to Saldís. Even if the woman lacked the outer shell, the soul within was a true Longbeard. Temperamental and suspicious of strangers. 

It was up to her, Dís decided, to play the diplomat. “Saldís, would you please fetch the maps from my quarters?” 

If the woman thought Dís’s request odd, she didn’t indicate it by so much as a bat of the eye. With a perfunctory nod, Saldís strode from the room, Finnin a step behind with his broad shoulders taut. Seeing his lady distressed was certainly bringing out his protective instincts. 

Not that the lad was so stupid as to let Saldís detect it. 

Smirking to herself, Dís turned her attention to the men. “You’ll need to forgive our Saldís. Her only experience with men is the Black Númenóreans, and they did all they could to destroy her ability to trust. She’s made remarkable progress since she returned to us, but there is much that still haunts _our_ lass.” Mayhap the emphasis was cruel, but Dís intended to make it plain the dwarves were not about to relinquish the woman simply because a man claimed kinship.

Barhador’s expression was hard when it turned her way. Then with a long and weary exhale, he ran one hand down his face. He was no youngling, this man, and in that instant, he aged further before her eyes. Uncle, he’d named himself to Saldís. Given the grief etched upon his face, Dís believed him. 

She allowed him a moment to collect himself, measuring this man carefully. If he’d been of common men, Dís would have pegged him to be in his early fifties. Being a Ranger, she was not too sure. Their Saldís was ninety years old. Barhador had to be over a century. 

Softening with sudden sympathy, she said, “We’ll not deny you the chance to know Saldís, Ranger. I but remind you that the only sire she’s ever known stands just over there.” His eyes followed hers to Bifur. “And her uncles stand with him.”

The Ranger removed his gloves slowly, his lips pursed and eyes inspecting those she’d indicated before returning to her. “I can understand your position. Believe me when I say I am grateful for the care and protection you have provided Fandes’s daughter. It will not be forgotten.” 

Dís offered him a smile. Then with a gesture, she sent her people to dish out bowls of stew from the large kettle the innkeeper’s wife had left over the fire at Dís’s request. The two hobbit innkeepers made an appearance, bustling about to assure that everyone had what they needed before retreating a handful of minutes later. Dís imagined this snowstorm was a rare treat for them, a chance to relax. 

In very little time, the dwarves had ushered the Rangers to sit at tables they shoved together to form one long rectangle. Each was supplied with stew, a small loaf of bread, and ale. Dís gestured Barhador to one end of the table, and two Rangers—one with clear, familial similarities—joined him. Barhador grunted wearily as he collapsed into his seat. Chairs scraped against wood as others of his people did the same. 

It was then that Saldís returned. Dís accepted the maps with a brief smile, gratified to find the woman much more composed. Finnin eyed Saldís closely, but he, too, looked happier. Suspicious of any male who glanced Saldís’s way, but happier. 

Dori, she noted with an inner chortle, shoved a steaming mug of tea into Saldís’s hands the instant she sat. Chamomile, Dís identified by scent. Under the dwarf’s watchful eye, the woman sipped at the beverage, her reluctance written upon her face, but since learning Ori’s fate, few had the heart to protest when Dori fussed over them. 

“We’d not expected you today,” Nori piped up, his attention upon the men. “Given the storm and all.” Nori snatched an empty chair, twirled it about, and straddled it by the corner of the newly-formed table. Dís and many of the others clustered around him, some sitting upon the tops of unused tables, others selecting unused seats. 

Barhador dipped a spoon into his stew, but the Ranger poked at it instead of ingesting it, his gaze straying towards his newfound niece. “If Mordor is preparing to move, we are low on time, Master Dwarf.”

“Nori,” the ex-thief offered. 

Barhador inclined his head. “This,” he gestured to the man sitting at his left, “is my son, Thannor.” The shaggy-haired man was a younger version of his sire with the same deep-set, gray-blue eyes and patrician nose. All that was lacking was the widow's peak. 

A leather thong hung around his neck with a knot of auburn hair suspended from it like a pendant. A reserved man, she judged the dark-haired man. He said nothing, his gaze hooded. Even his body language was muted.

“Next to him sits my eldest grandchild, Berenor,” Barhador added.

Berenor flashed a dimpled grin, his lightly freckled face filled with exuberance. In Berenor, Dís suspected she was seeing much of his dam, for the lad had curly auburn hair for the most part contained at the base of his neck. A few rebellious strands batted his cheek and nose. 

By Mahal, he reminded her of her sons. Not so much in the shape of face or beard, for the lad had no facial hair to speak of and his face and body were too delicate for a dwarf. But in the contagious nature of his smile and the way his brown eyes lit up with the warmth of his spirit, he was as vibrant as her lost sons.

She shook off the pang of sorrow and brought things back to the matter at hand. “You say you believe the war has begun?” she asked of Barhador.

OoOoOo

As the man— _Barhador,_ Saldís committed to memory—outlined the Rangers’ reasoning, she inspected each of the men in turn, cradling the warm mug of chamomile Dori had thrust at her to her chest. A subtle hint, and one she knew deserved. She would have to work beside these men.

Berúthiel’s cats, she was furious with herself. By denouncing kinship with the men, she’d threatened to capsize the entire mission before it had begun. What had she been thinking? She’d be burned to ash before she allowed her struggles to destroy this one hope to make some difference in the war to come. 

She had to do better. _It’s time._ She’d delayed long enough. 

With the ease of long habit, she allowed her Akhora-self to settle about her like a cloak. Her loathing of men sharpened keenly, but her uneasiness faded from existence. She found herself somewhat startled by the increased animosity, but in retrospect, she should have anticipated it. Time with the Khazad had taught her how very wronged she’d been by men. 

Animosity, she could deal with. Akhora had dealt with it before. 

This evening was business. War. She slipped into long established patterns with ease.

OoOoOo

Dori frowned minutely. From where he sat, he had a clear view of his niece, and what he’d seen worried him. One moment, their Saldís had been ill at ease—he’d not have labeled it fearful, but wary, perhaps?—and the next, her face had smoothed out. The warmth of her spirit…faded.

 _You’re worrying over naught, you crotchety old fuss-pot,_ he scolded himself. Yet a tendril of alarm remained. Their Saldís had been through much upheaval in the last half year, and this confrontation with her past could not be helpful.

_I’ll keep watch,_ he promised himself. Like as not, nothing was amiss, but if there was, it would not escape Dori’s notice. 

He’d lost his baby brother. He wouldn’t lose any one else.

OoOoOo

As afternoon progressed into evening, dwarves and Dunedain bandied about ideas and suggestions. Saldís expanded upon the details she’d shared with Halros, telling the Rangers how they could infiltrate Tovennen undetected.

“We did not pack black clothing,” one of the younger Rangers pointed out doubtfully.

“That is where our own Dori comes in,” Dís cut in before Saldís do more than cock one eyebrow. Did the man think her so poor a strategist to overlook such a basic need for their plot? 

Dori startled as he slowly realized all eyes were on him, as if he’d been distracted. With an abashed look Dís’s way, he asked the princess to repeat herself. As soon as she finished, Dori nodded his head. “I’ll be needing to take measurements from each of you.”

“You’ve the fabric?” Barhador’s son this time, his voice unrevealing.

Dori fussed with his jacket. “Aye, we’ve plenty of bolts stored with our supplies. We’d hoped for more of your people on this venture, so we’ll have ample.”

Eyes turned Akhora’s way, some speculative, some thoughtful. She met their stares with the same cocked eyebrow and slightly challenging quirk of the lips. 

“We’ve got the earrings, too,” Finnin said from directly behind her. Saldís craned her neck around to find him with thick arms folded before his chest, his very stance a warning for the men to keep their distance. _Protective,_ she decided. A part of her flared with annoyance, but then a wave of peace washed over her. 

She had to face none of this alone. Her eyes drifted among the Khazâd at the table, and the knowledge settled into her core. _Safe._ By her soul, she could grow accustomed to this. She gingerly permitted Akhora to fade into the background.

Dori seemed to exhale in relief, but when she turned a questioning look his way, he smiled gently and shook his head. 

“Earrings?” Barhador asked. Other Dunedain faces turned to Finnin.

“Black Númenóreans use them as status symbols,” she explained. “You cannot pass for one of them without wearing earrings. Onyx for Arcanists, rubies for Weapons.” One hand lifted, flicked back her black tresses to show her own ear where ruby studs once again climbed up the earlobe. 

She’d hated the necessity, but on the odd chance Akhora must make a public appearance, Saldís intended to be ready. Nori had made a good point back at Thorin’s Hall. It was her word against Valkthor’s. Without his felines, that warg’s excrement could claim all he liked…but only if her earrings were restored. It was a risky move she hoped to avoid, but Saldís knew even the best of plans could go awry.

Dís informed them, “Our jewelers created exact matches to the earrings Saldís wears. Ruby earrings, all of them.”

Barhador nodded slowly. His eyes met Saldís’s and for the first time, a connection seemed to click into place. There was approval in his expression. How she detected it, later she could not quite say, but she knew he noted the absence of onyx and agreed in full. None of them could or would feign a flair for the dark arts. 

The exchange left her thoughtful.

Discussion next turned to the road they should take. It was here that Saldís defected, arguing with the men against the dwarves’ preference to travel by land to Dol Amroth. They must sail as soon as could be. If she could work with men, her dwarves could tighten their britches and work with elves. They were, after all, adults. 

At last, the Black Company was in agreement. As soon as the storm cleared, they would ride hard for the Gray Havens under one Lord Círdan. With any luck, the elf lord would have a ship available that they could re-purpose. If not, it was to be hoped the elves would take them at least as far south as Dol Amroth. From there, the Black Company would need to buy, beg or steal a vessel of men that could pass for a Corsair’s, granting them the ability to sail into hostile territory with few questions. 

With the impatience riding her so heavily, Saldís suspected it was going to be a long trip.


	25. Black Vengeance

**_Gray Havens/Sea of Lhûn  
22 January TA 3019 _ **

Bifur followed his daughter up a too-thin gangplank onto the renamed ship, Black Vengeance. From elegant, pale wood assembled and artistically carved to resemble a swan, the vessel now loomed ominously, a crude ship of ill-repute. 

The Black Company and Lord Círdan’s elves had worked feverishly to alter the Vengeance since the company’s arrival on the 13th of January. Nine days was little time for so extensive a task, but the Vengeance, once a fussy bit of naval prowess, now looked quite the disreputable mishmash of boards and sails held together by naught more than rusted nails and a prayer. 

Saldís had told them all how the man, Thorongil (who his lass’s uncle identified as none other than the Chieftain of the Dunedain, Aragorn) had routed the Corsairs so thoroughly in the year 2980 that the pirates’ fleet had yet to recover its former, formidable might. Though there were quality vessels among the fleet, the majority of the Corsairs sailed in rougher ships stolen during raids and refitted for battle. 

The Black Company’s ship had been altered to appear of low enough quality to escape scrutiny. Her swift and strong frame was hidden by haphazard planks, and a cleverly disguised hull left her looking none too seaworthy. 

The Vengeance creaked as it swayed gently back and forth with the sea’s motions. Bifur determined not to glance down as he crossed the plank and stepped onto the ship’s deck. He smirked as his gaze alighted upon the prow of their ship. Where once a swan’s graceful neck had arched proudly from the ship, there now remained only its hacked-at moorings from which a replica of the Corsair’s black and yellow flag would fly once they left waters dominated by the Free Peoples. 

How Nori and Bofur had delighted in demolishing the fussy swan’s neck. Aye, and jested all the while at the pained expressions that crossed elvish faces with each hollow whack of the the dwarves’ axes. 

“Is it supposed to be moving like this?” Finnur asked, both tone and face aghast as he joined them on the ship. The inventor clutched the lapels of his yellow coat as if afraid he would lose the garment. 

“It’s the sea,” Finnin told his brother with a lazy grin. “You have read of tides, aye?”

“Tides? What are those?” Kai whispered. The soft-spoken silversmith leaned upon his staff in an effort to stabilize his balance, his thin face bearing a slightly green tinge. From over his shoulder, his lute peeked into view in tandem with each rock of his body. 

“The movements of the sea, Master Kai,” the young Ranger, Berenor, said with a laugh, clapping the dwarf upon the back. 

Kai swallowed and pressed one hand to his lips, smashing the end of his slightly hooked nose. Then the walnut haired dwarf dropped staff, bag, and lute and fled to the ship’s rail, the green and silver beads in his beard braids flashing. There, Kai emptied his belly overboard noisily.

Berenor’s lips parted and a guilty look flashed across the man’s freckled face. “Should I…?” He gestured to their ailing warrior.

Bifur grunted and shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. 

“We’re Durin’s folk,” Finnin informed the abashed Ranger with a sympathetic look Kai’s way. “We belong within our halls of stone. I daresay Kai will not be the last to find travel by sea does not agree with him.”

_Aye,_ Bifur thought. There was a reason one never heard of sea-faring dwarves. His own belly sloshed about unhappily, and he hoped he’d not be joining Kai anytime soon. That this unhappy state developed before they’d left dock didn’t bode well for them, he didn’t think. 

“Going to be a long voyage,” Bofur murmured from his side. 

“You’ve sailed before?” Dís asked the curly haired Ranger as she joined them on deck. The dwarrowdam allowed her travel bag to slip down to rest near her feet. Always poised, their Dís. Bifur wondered if even motion sickness stood a chance against their Durin. 

Berenor shook his head in denial, his newly pierced right earlobe with its two ruby studs glinting in the morning light. “No, my lady.” Bifur exchanged amused glances with Bofur at the lad’s exuberance. Berenor’s brown eyes sparked with enthusiasm. “But I’ve often wished to see the sea.”

“And now you have.”

They all straightened at the unexpected sound of Lord Círdan’s voice. Despite himself, Bifur felt a measure of awe every time he beheld the gray-haired, _bearded_ elf. Never had he seen an elf with beard before, but Círdan the Shipwright possessed one, right enough, and a long one at that. He was gray and old, showing age as no other elf Bifur had seen in his life. Bifur had heard from the elves that Círdan was the oldest elf remaining in Middle Earth, and the elf lord’s keen eyes reflected it. Likely there was little the elf had not seen in his long life. 

Berenor stood at attention, a chilly breeze flapping stray auburn curls into his face. “Yes, my lord.”

Círdan’s smile radiated with a warmth few could match, and Bifur had often found himself wondering if this was what the Valar were like. ‘Twas unsettling, dwarf and elf relations being what they were. Thorin would have much to say about Bifur’s awe, of that Bifur had no doubts. He took some comfort that he was not the only one so moved. Dori’s eyes widened each time they landed upon the elf, Kyri had filled pages with images of him, and Bofur turned into a stuttering fool each time he was forced to address him. 

Light footsteps sounded from behind. Barhador, Bifur ascertained after craning his neck about.

Turning at the Ranger’s arrival, Lord Círdan dipped his head slightly and said, “I’ll introduce you to the volunteers who will man the Black Vengeance to your destination.” The elf paused before turning to the nine elves assembling behind him. “You are certain,” the elf lord inquired of Dís and Barhador, “that you do not wish for them to return for you?”

Dís’s, “We are certain,” coincided with Barhador’s, “Quite, my lord.”

Nay, the Black Company had discussed the aftermath already. Should they succeed—and survive—their efforts, they’d be heading north in the hopes of uniting with the Gray Company. The dwarves of Thorin’s Hall would not be returning home until the Dark Lord was dealt with (how, none yet knew) or their lives spent. The Rangers had unanimously echoed the intention. What use returning home only to face a more dire plight later should the Dark Lord gain victory against kingdom after kingdom?

The Lord of the Gray Havens inclined his head. “Very well then. Your captain…”

A commotion turned all eyes to the gangplank. A brunette elf lady with leaf-green eyes sprinted across the flimsy plank and right up to her lord’s side. “My Lord Círdan,” she said in a rush. “Another dwarf has arrived claiming to be a member of this expedition.”

“Oh?” Elegant gray brows arched as Círdan’s starry gaze slid to Dís. “You were expecting another?”

The elf was not the only soul eyeing the princess, for sure as an elf loved green things, Bifur read recognition and satisfaction upon the smile Dís adopted.

Bofur tugged upon one earlobe. “Something you forgot to tell us, Dís?”

The dwarrowdam’s smile turned predatory, and her arms folded over her chest. “He made it,” she said.

That, Bifur thought, was of no help. Who? 

Almost as a unit, the rest of the Black Company converged on the port railing, scanning the dock. Bifur squinted. In the distance, galloping through the tree-lined streets of the Gray Havens, was a pony. A dwarf leaned low over its neck, one with a white head of hair.

“Lord Hlein,” Dís informed them.

The lady seemed to find the looks of disbelief turned her way amusing. _Of course she does. She’s a Durin._ By Mahal, that smirk she wore was pure Thorin. “We may need him,” she said.

“We may need him?” Nori parroted.

Dís’s smile vanished. Leveling a quelling look upon them all, she said, “Should Saldís need to reveal herself, her words will carry more weight should she appear to have recaptured an escaped prisoner. A _dwarf_ prisoner. Hlein’s presence will cast doubt on any of Valkthor’s claims.”

“You mean for him to meekly return to chains?” Ragan rumbled. Meaty arms dropped from across his chest as he stood taller. 

_Aye, that’s exactly what she intends,_ Bifur thought, lips pursing in a silent whistle. Hlein was her hidden blade, ready to be brandished if needed, and Bifur could only look upon Dís with renewed respect. Asking such a thing of Lord Hlein could not have been easy.

“I expect us all to do whatever is necessary for victory,” Dís said flatly. “Never forget what is at stake, Ragan. Your wife.” Ragan stiffened, but Dís’s gaze moved onward. “Your brother’s family,” she told Bofur. “Your sister,” she addressed to Kai and Kyri. Then to the entire Company, “We all have loved ones back home who will suffer should we fail. Remember it.” 

With that, Dís walked across the plank to greet Lord Hlein. Bifur exchanged somber looks with his fellow Khazâd. Though Bifur had known the stakes all along, Dís’s words reverberated through him. 

It was a much sobered party that awaited on the Vengeance for Hlein’s arrival.

OoOoOo

“You made it,” Princess Dís greeted him as Hlein dismounted and quickly unlashed his gear from the saddle.

“Aye, that I did.” His movements slowed as he considered his princess. By her attire and the blade strapped to her side, ‘twas plain Dís intended to join the team. How had she argued her way past Dwalin? The Lord of Thorin’s Hall was notoriously protective of their last Durin, and justifiably so. 

“Just in time,” she added lightly. 

He snorted dryly. She had no notion how fortunate he was to have made it at all. Weather and a run in with a band of goblins had near ended his participation in this mad plan before it had begun. “So it seems, my lady.”

His gaze turned to the ship. By Durin’s soiled chamberpot, the vessel looked unstable. Hlein spared a thought to hope the elves here knew what they were about, for his Nai would have much to say upon their reunion in Mandos’ Halls should he meet his end because of elvish craftsmanship. _Or it’s lack._

Tossing his pack over one shoulder, he followed the princess up a plank that dipped sickeningly with his every step. Once aboard, he was introduced to the rest of their team. Hlein assessed these traveling companions with a short, sweeping gaze, then turned his attention where he deemed it most needed. 

After dropping his bag onto the deck, he marched right up to Saldís where she stood between two dwarves, one with graying auburn locks molded into peaks and one younger with blond hair and no braids in his beard to speak of. Both gave him warning looks, which amused Hlein to no end. Rare, indeed, that the Lord of Kalil Kilmîn was subjected to such heavy threat from his own kind.

Hlein ignored them and instead inspected the woman, satisfaction taking him at what he saw. Much changed, she was. Where before her face was hard and eyes devoid of warmth, now he could see life in those gray eyes and a softness to her lips. “It does my heart good to see you returned to your family, lass,” he said at last.

A measure of worry and caution eased from her face. “I wronged you,” she said softly. “How you can remain polite after what I almost—”

_“Almost_ is a tricky word,” he snorted. “It matters not but to gamblers. And mayhap elven ships,” he said, casting a doubtful look at the deck beneath his feet and inviting her to join in his humor. 

_That did it._ The rest of the tension drained from her, and amusement sparkled in her eyes. By Mahal, her family had done the unthinkable, reclaiming the pieces of her soul from the cretins who had attempted to rob her of it. 

“All is well between us, aye?” he said, holding her gaze. 

“Yes,” she said quietly. The blond at her side grinned, thumbs tucked into the wide belt about his waist, and the older dwarf inclined his head to Hlein with gratitude stamped upon his face. 

Satisfied all was mended there, Hlein rejoined Dís. And resolutely ignored the way his belly gurgled in displeasure with each rock of the boat beneath him.

OoOoOo

Bifur vowed to seek a private moment with Hlein later to thank the Lord of Kalil Kilmîn for the words he’d uttered. What Saldís had almost done, Bifur had not heard, but ‘twas plain it was no good thing. That Hlein had brushed it off so easily… Well, Bifur knew himself in the older dwarf’s debt.

Bofur clapped Bifur on the back as they rejoined the others around Lord Círdan. 

With a brief smile, the elf lord introduced the nine elves lined up behind him. Though it grated to be so dependent upon elves, Bifur could not help but be thankful for their assistance. Saldís had sailed before, aye, and Barhador, they’d come to learn, had been among those with the Dunedain chieftain during his successful attack on the Corsairs that had cost Saldís so—a fact that had pained the man when he learned of it. 

Both could man their ship, but no others had sufficient experience. Little use the Black Company would be beached upon a reef or sleeping at the bottom of the sea in Lord Ulmo’s care. 

Introductions finished, Lord Círdan departed, and their elvish crew got the ship underway. Bifur and the others stowed their belongings in the quarters below deck.

OoOoOo

_  
**24 January TA 3019**  
_

Sailing was a miserable business, Bifur thought two days later, but an unhappy belly would not deter him from what needed doing. By Durin, it wouldn’t. 

Bifur waited impatiently as Bofur translated Bifur's request to the three youngest of the Rangers collectively dubbed The Brothers. Berenor, Erynor, and Calenor had but four years difference in age between them, and from observation, Bifur thought the moniker apt. ‘Twas rare indeed to see one without the other two by his side. 

The Brothers eyed Saldís in unison, faced Bifur, and nodded their agreement. 

A relief. _Ye’ll thank me later, lassie,_ Bifur thought. 

Saldís had remained polite but distant from the men, and that, Bifur had determined, was not the healing he wished for her. The trio of young men, so very similar in disposition to Kíli and Fíli at their most headstrong, were what was needed now. Bifur had seen Saldís spar with each of the Rangers, and he’d noted a…softening, he supposed…when facing off with the auburn haired son o’ her cousin, Thannor. 

Aye, Berenor and his friends were the answer. They would pester his daughter right out of her standoffish behavior. 

If she didn’t turn that wicked blade of hers on them first. 

Bifur chortled to himself, for in truth, he knew there was little danger of Saldís raising hand to the three. ‘Twas all he could do not to rub his hands together in glee as the young Rangers—one with hair as black as night, one a blond, and auburn-haired Berenor—crossed the deck to where his Gêdul was seated. As was her wont, Saldís was perched upon the ship’s rail, her slim legs twined about the balusters to stabilize her seat and hands resting upon the banister. 

What so enthralled her about the nauseating undulations of the sea, Bifur did not know, but enthrall her it did. When not drilling—and being drilled—by the Dunedain, ‘twas almost guaranteed that there is where she’d be found, gazing out at the endless waves of blue. 

She’d made big strides, his lassie, in working through her hatred of men. He’d feared the worst when she’d abruptly turned cold when speaking with the Rangers in Brockenborings, but it seemed his fears had been groundless. Since shucking that chillingly detached persona just as abruptly, she’d not donned it again. Bifur was sure of that. Both he and Dori had been keeping watch.

Yet, there was still that thrice-cursed reserve in her dealings with the men. _But not for long. Your adâd will give you the nudge you’re needing, never fear._ Whether his lassie would be grateful remained to be seen. 

‘Twas a truth the dwarven members of their party had learned fast—once The Brothers had one in their sights, there was no escape. The rascals were no children, but much like Kíli and Fíli had been, they were full of good cheer and jests aplenty even while possessing deadly skill with the blades strapped upon their persons. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Dori asked in a fretful whisper at his side, one of the many black tunics that needed sewing in one hand and needle with thread in the other. 

Bifur grunted and nodded perfunctorily. Aye, he was absolutely certain.

“One gold piece says our Saldís throws one o’ the lads overboard before the day is done,” Nori interjected. 

Bifur scowled. Bofur perked up from the queasy funk that had plagued him since they’d stepped onto the Vengeance. “What odds?”

As Bofur and Nori worked out their wager, Dori grousing over the matter, Bifur watched as the three Dunedain closed in upon his daughter.

OoOoOo

Saldís tensed as three slender bodies materialized around her without warning, each sporting a cocky grin. Though she’d grown accustomed to having men underfoot (mostly), the abruptness of their appearance had startled her.

 _Warg dung._ She’d almost drawn her scimitar. 

“Cousin,” Berenor greeted, his freckled face bright with mischief. He utterly ignored the glare she sent his way. 

What, she asked herself, had brought this about? Her eyes narrowed. “Did you need something?” 

A flash of color drew her attention beyond Berenor to a cluster of dwarves watching from beside the stairs leading below deck. Noticing her noticing them, Bofur dared to smile and wave one hand while Nori blinked innocently and Adâd smirked. Dori merely scrunched the black fabric in his hands, worry written upon his face.

That three of the four had something to do with her current predicament was as plain as the nose upon her face. _Orc spit._ After bestowing a harder glare upon the worst offender, Bofur, her attention returned to the grinning, curly-haired man beside her. 

“Just making conversation,” Berenor told her as the sea winds tugged a lock of hair out of the leather tie he wore, allowing it to bat him in the cheek. “As you are family.”

“What did they ask of you?” she asked with a sigh, spine slumping as she raised one hand to scratch her nose. 

As if planned— _Likely, it is,_ she grumbled to herself—Berenor hopped onto the railing to sit on her left, and his blond-haired friend, Erynor, did the same on her right. Black-haired Calenor looped an arm around his brother-in-arms’s neck, draping against Erynor’s back like a cloak. Calenor offered her a wink, and Erynor tapped his dimpled, bearded chin a couple times as if in thought.

“I think we should be free to call you ‘cousin’ as well, Saldís,” Erynor proclaimed, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. For all his jocularity, there was something watchful in his eyes that told her he was not entirely jesting. “After all, Berenor is like a brother to us.”

Her spine snapped straight. No, she was _not_ going to be saddled with The Brothers. Thannor had referred to them as the Troublesome Trio once, and she’d seen nothing to disabuse her of the impression that Thannor’s appellation was more fitting than the one more broadly bandied about. 

“See that?” Calenor drawled, hazel eyes twinkling. “She loves the idea.”

“No, I don’t,” she growled, appalled at how little they deigned to notice her scowl. That particular glower had always worked upon her underlings in Caeldor. Were these Rangers daft? Or, and this was a horrifying thought, had she lost her touch? Her scowl darkened, but the three remained entirely unconcerned. Truly?

“Of course you must call her cousin,” Berenor staunchly declared, unmoved as her furious frown transferred to him. 

_Bofur,_ she fumed to herself. When she got done with him, her uncle would remember his hours tied to that chair with fondness.

Berenor nudged her. “Smile, Cousin,” he said. 

The brown eyes looking down at her would be more fitting on a puppy dog than a dangerous Ranger. And how dare he steal her thunder? At the kind and vulnerable look on his face, her anger flaked and crumbled away despite her resolve. 

She shoved him, but the man only laughed, not for a second in danger of losing his seat. 

_Berúthiel’s accursed cats._ She’d never encountered any men like these before. They reminded her more of Nori and Bofur than men, and it was playing havoc with her preconceptions. 

Before she could formulate a response, blond-haired Erynor leaned forward, fingers tapping against the banister beneath them. He squinted into the sun, his silhouette showcasing the strong line of a jaw only slightly concealed by the short beard he wore. “We did have reason to seek you out,” he said, voice sobering.

Saldís abandoned all attempts to scare the three away. With one eyebrow arched, she asked dryly, “You mean besides pestering me?”

“Oh, ouch.” Black-haired Calenor clutched his chest. With his square chin, long sideburns and golden skin, he could not look less like his light-haired companion. 

“Besides that,” Erynor agreed affably. His chin jerked. “We heard you were quite talented with that whip of yours.”

“Yes, show us,” Calenor interjected.

Glancing among the three, she suspected the warriors would grant her no peace until she surrendered. Two sets of brown eyes and one hazel gleamed with avid curiosity. Whips, she’d noticed, were lacking among the Rangers. 

Craning around, her attention ventured beyond the Rangers to the dwarves watching not far away. When she lifted her eyebrows, Bifur inclined his head, a smirk dancing upon his lips. 

_Interfering dwarf._ She knew exactly what her adâd was up to. 

With a sigh, she bowed to the inevitable. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The Brothers grinned in unison before vacating their seats to lead the way towards the stern of the ship where the Black Company did most of its training. 

Two hours later, her mood was black as Kimilzor’s soul. Saldís waited only until The Brothers had taken their leave before allowing her expression to darken with all the fury roiling through her veins. 

None of it was directed at the men, for they’d become businesslike the instant her demonstration had begun. More, they’d proved apt pupils. Calenor, for one, had displayed a real knack with the whip, so much so that she’d determined to procure one for him once they reached Umbar. 

No, every ounce of her wrath was directed inward. Time with the three Dunedain had caused her to ponder the many ways in which the young warriors differed from their counterparts in Caeldor…and her mind had abruptly realized she’d overlooked one vital obstacle to the Black Company’s plans. Bad enough to overlook something small, for even the tiniest mistake could spell disaster for them, but this… This was an oversight of colossal proportions. 

_Imbecile,_ she hissed as the men walked off in search of food. Her body shook, unable to contain the mountain of anger a second longer. _How could you be so blind?_

She’d been viewing the task ahead with Akhora’s dispassionate eyes, trusting in her wealth of experience to lead her. A derisive, scoffing noise escaped her. _Your fool arrogance will get everyone killed._ They could not afford such gross mistakes, but Ib-Akhora had never before had to worry about anything beyond the destruction of her foes. Simply put, she’d missed the obvious. 

_Lack-wit._

A swift glance confirmed Adâd and her uncles were no longer on deck. The urge to hunt them down almost goaded her towards the steps to the hold, but reason led her instead to the rail and the sea’s calming motions. What would she tell them? Her hands clenched the rail, and her head dipped downward. 

Heavy footsteps neared. Lord Hlein, strolling along the deck as he did daily. _What do I tell him?_ How to confess that her untimely realization likely meant the two of them must endure the horrors of Caeldor much more intensely than she’d ever dreamed? That they must risk bodily harm and torture?

_There has to be another way._

Her hand closed around the milky pendant Bjartur had given her. _Come back,_ he’d told her, and she’d promised to do her best. Fear brushed the edges of her mind like ghostly fingertips. An old fear, one that threatened to steal her nerve. She did not wish to be swallowed up by Akhora again. 

There had to be another way. She needed to discover it, and quickly.


	26. Choices and Consequences

_**Sea of Belegaer  
27 January TA 3019**_

Saldís played her flute for hours, bittersweet as old lessons returned to her. She gloried in the feel of wind running its fingers through her hair and sun toasting her skin. There was little of her past that she’d missed. The food, certainly, for she still yearned for the spicy fare of the south. The hotter sun, too. 

But this? Ah, this she’d hungered for. There was a reason she’d been Ib-Akhora, commander assigned as liaison to the Corsairs until Chieftain Aragorn’s masterful strike. If she’d been born into another life, Saldís considered that she might well have become a sailor. Or a merchant perhaps, selling wares from port to port.

If only sea, sun, and music could solve all of life’s ills. She was no closer to a solution to her dilemma than when she’d discovered it, and worry had turned her sharp-tongued and distant. The night before, she’d snapped at both Finnin and Dori, and regret burned upon her tongue. 

She had to find a solution soon. Their voyage would not last forever, much as a wistful part of her wished otherwise.

A moaning Bofur materialized at her side, reeking of ginger. None of the dwarves had taken well to seafaring, and the evening tempest the night before had effectively demolished the hold-outs among them. Seasickness had dug its pernicious grip into the entire dwarven complement of the Black Company, including Lady Dís and Healer Goira. The night had been a long, wretched affair for them all—dwarves being ill and the Rangers and Saldís caring for them while battling their own nausea at the sea’s violent convulsions.

Saldís spared a thought to be grateful the aptly named captain, Gaearon, had stowed copious amounts of candied ginger in the hold. It had settled her own stomach after the tumultuous storm had passed, and while it did not cure the dwarves’ illness, it lessened its intensity. She counted herself in the black-haired, green-eyed elf’s debt. 

With a sympathetic grimace, she stowed the flute in her boot, reached into her trouser pocket to collect a piece of ginger, and offered it to Bofur. 

Her uncle waved it off. “Nay,” he whispered. “Mouth’s already a-fire from the last three pieces I ate.” He leaned into her when she rubbed his back. 

“What are you doing out of your hammock?” she asked, nodding to The Brothers as they strode past, coils of rope looped over their shoulders. The three flashed her grins as they passed, blond Erynor adding a cheeky wink. The Rangers had, almost to a man, adapted well to life at sea. Many volunteered in their free time to assist the elves in manning the ship, eager to learn from Arda’s most experienced sailors. 

Bofur peered up at her out of one eye as if the sunlight hurt him. “Yer my niece,” he muttered. “It’s plain something’s been botherin’ you. Been days since ye’ve truly smiled or laughed.”

She pulled Bofur closer in a side hug. Her uncles, sire, Finnur and Finnin had all made regular appearances on deck, before and after the storm. She’d assumed it was to get a lungful of fresh air. Now she knew better. They were checking up on her.

“I’m okay,” she told him softly. 

Bofur closed his eyes as a larger swell lifted the Black Vengeance higher into the air. “Mahal.” Then opening his eyes again, he said, “Stop with the polite chatter and tell me how you truly fare.” A swallow. “Before I lose the contents of my stomach again.”

“Have you tried peppermint? I know Dori packed some away,” she said.

“Yer dodging the question. Spill it, lass.”

Saldís grimaced. How did she fare? “Truly?” she said, her jaw tightening and gaze returning to the sea as she allowed herself to confess the fear plaguing her. “I’m frightened, Uncle.”

From her periphery, she witnessed how fast his head whipped around to glance up at her. “Of all the things I’d expected to emerge from yer lips, that’s near last on the list.” Then with sudden temper, “Did one o’ those men insult you?”

Saldís laughed unhappily. “Do you really think they could?”

Bofur’s ramrod stiff posture relaxed. With a grimace, he dug a piece of ginger from his pocket, plopped it into his mouth and chewed. 

“I thought you’d had enough of that,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“So I thought, but if I’m remaining up here starin’ at _that,”_ his chin jerked towards the sea, “I’m needing more.”

“Go back down below,” she said with a sigh, her gaze sweeping the horizon once more. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ye know, you’re not too old for me to paddle,” he said. “Might take some doing, but I’ve nothing but time.” At her rigid silence, Bofur’s right arm tightened about her. “Start talking, or I’ll have the others up here, too. You’ll not be escaping this.”

Frustration claimed her. Why had she not kept her mouth shut? But the damage was done, and Bofur would not budge without an explanation. _You’ve delayed long enough,_ a small voice insisted tartly. It was true. 

There was only one solution, and it was time she accepted it. 

“If I swear to you, Uncle, that I’ll speak of this tonight, will you return to your hammock and get some rest?” The Black Company had adopted the habit of collecting near the ship’s stern each day after the sun set to discuss the many facets of their mission, from Caeldor’s layout to the mannerisms the Dunedain would have to adopt when mimicking the Black Númenóreans. 

Bofur chewed in thoughtful silence, his head tilted to one side and eyes narrowed. At last, he nodded reluctantly. “Another question, then, lass. How fare you with the men?” 

Saldís felt unaccountably relieved he did not push further. “It’s going better than I expected. I anticipated difficulty sparring with them,” she said, chin jerking towards where most of the Rangers currently clustered near the prow of the ship. “They are…different.”

Bofur took a bracing inhale. “Different. That’s good, aye?”

She smiled. “Aye.” 

Bofur grinned, though she noted it lacked its typical sparkle. “Ye do us proud, Saldís.” He squeezed her to his side again. “And with that, I think I’ll go spend some quality time with a tin pail I’ve been exchanging many fine sentiments with o’er the night.”

“Witty conversationalist, is it?” she couldn’t refrain from asking.

He waggled one finger at her before shuffling towards the stairs that would carry him below.

Saldís’s cheeks bellowed out with a slow exhale. With a hop, she seated herself on the ship’s banister, cognizant that some of the elves smiled in response. To the Teleri, her love of the sea was understood, for they, too, shared it. 

_You are delaying again,_ an inner voice pestered. 

She confessed she was and still permitted herself a few stolen moments of peace. With legs locked around the rails beneath her, Saldís lost herself in the beauty of the sun glinting on the blue waves. Come sunset, she’d be disrupting everyone’s happily constructed plans. Adâd would be outraged, likely her uncles, too. Finnin… She rubbed one eyebrow. The blond warrior had been beside her as much as his ailing stomach permitted when she worked with the Dunedain. She suspected he too would rebel against the inevitable. 

She took a deep breath, memorizing the sensation of peace as wind whipped her tunic against her skin. Her time as Saldís was almost at an end. This time, no alluring arguments about Finnur’s creations would spare her. Lives hung in the balance, lives only Ib-Akhora, bane of men, might save. 

Salty sea air filled her lungs. _For all of you,_ she thought, picturing not only her family but the many under Lord Dwalin’s leadership in the Blue Mountains. The Dunedain. Even the elves and men under the shadow of Sauron’s covetous Eye. 

Resolved, she left her perch. It was time to speak with the Rangers.

OoOoOo

Barhador’s eyebrows flew upwards as he noticed his niece’s approach. Though she’d been diligent in training with the Rangers and vocal during the Black Company’s nightly gatherings, she had never sought their company beyond that. That his niece preferred the company of dwarves was without question, for it was only with them—and to a lesser extent these last days with The Brothers—that she could be seen to unbend enough to smile.

Conversation among the Dunedain trickled to a halt as she stepped into their midst, her expression betraying a measure of reserve. The Brothers set aside the ropes they’d been mending and rose to their feet.

“Niece,” Barhador greeted. 

Her gray eyes flared almost imperceptibly. “Uncle,” she said, the sound one of trying on a term to see how it fit. 

_It’s a step,_ he consoled himself. A small one, but he would take all he could get and for more than one reason. His mother dearly longed to meet this granddaughter of hers, but Barhador had been unsure how that might come about given Saldís’s aversion to her own people. _Perhaps Berenor and his friends can mend these fences more than I’d hoped._

She faced the rest of the Rangers. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

Lanky, dark blond Himon flipped the lucky coin he was never without—a relic from Arnor—into the air and caught it, a habit that needed none of the man’s attention, it was so rote. His thin lips quirked. “Nothing to interrupt,” the middle-aged man said. “We were reviewing the information you provided about our enemy.”

Thannor lifted the parchment images of a host of Black Númenóreans into the air in demonstration. Though imperfect, Kyri had sketched the Duumvirate, Hands, Six Lords and commanders with Saldís’s direction. Upon each page was an individual’s rank, habits, and history.

“And deciding upon names for ourselves in case it becomes necessary,” Erynor interjected. 

Saldís nodded shortly. Then to Barhador’s surprise, she smirked. “Are you ready yet to lose that pitiful beard you’re so proud of?”

She teased him? Barhador’s gaze slid to his son’s and found a matching relief there. As much as they needed their kinswoman to trust them, the Rangers must know her well enough to be able to trust her, too. 

“Pitiful?” Erynor objected, one hand smoothing across his jaw while a number of Rangers laughed. “This rugged and handsome visage has won many a heart.”

“In his dreams,” Calenor interjected dryly. 

Erynor grinned. “Ah, but what dreams they were.”

Barhador’s lips twitched, but he lifted one hand, commanding silence. “What can we do for you?” he asked the woman.

The fingers of her right hand tapped against her thigh. “I’ve no right to ask your guidance—we both know I’ve done little to deserve it—but I’m in need of it.”

All around, smiles vanished. Golden-haired Medlinor straightened from where he’d been leaning against a barrel of drinking water, his green eyes sharp. Orodon and Thalon scooped up the dice they’d been playing with, all business.

Barhador frowned. That she came to men for counsel spoke volumes. 

“What’s happened?” Berenor asked, the arms he’d had folded before his chest dropping to his side. Erynor and Calenor stepped closer to Berenor, all three wearing the same expressions of protective ferocity. How or why it had happened, the result was the same. The Brothers had adopted Saldís. That the woman could best any of the three didn’t seem to matter. A sliver of humor touched Barhador at the incongruity of it. 

It was to Barhador that Saldís said, “I was relying on my experience as Akhora to guide me in charting our path.” It sounded like a confession, one delivered with chin lifted and shoulders back. 

“Go on,” Barhador said quietly, not quite seeing where that would result in difficulty. Given who they would face, he deemed her actions reasonable.

Her lips twisted. “Understand,” she said, “Black Númenóreans raid. They conquer and plunder.” She must have read the lack of understanding on their faces, because she followed with a quiet, “We never worried about rescuing anyone or what innocents might be in our path.”

_Eru be praised._ Exquisite relief flooded through him. Barhador had worried about her silence on this topic, and a number of his Rangers had expressed equal concern. At last, she broached the subject that had weighed upon many of the Dunedain. Without a shred of doubt in his mind, he said, “The children.”

She swallowed, eyes fleeing towards the sea. “Aye, the children.” She grimaced. “I cannot believe I’ve been such a fool, overlooking something so vital.” 

“Can we not rescue them at the same time as the women in the Den?” Erynor asked, pensively rubbing his bearded jaw, his opposite arm held at his waist. 

“It won’t work,” Saldís said in a tired voice, one hand to her forehead. “I’ve been over this in my mind, time and again.” Her hand dropped. “If I show up suddenly as Akhora, commanding them to follow me, they will react with suspicion.”

The most muscular Ranger among them, Thalon, ruffled his cropped black locks with one big hand. “If you tell them—” 

“It won’t work,” she interrupted. “No matter what story we concoct. They will assume treachery, that this is some new Test sprung upon them.” One corner of her mouth hiked upwards sourly. “Most will attack, attempting to take me down, while the others run for the nearest Master or Hand.”

“Even the youngest?” Anuon, Berenor’s uncle on his mother’s side, uncoiled his compact frame from where he’d been seated upon a cluster of crates. The wind toyed with the fiery red curls Anuon wore lose to his shoulders, but the archer spared it no attention, his brown eyes intent. “Children will attack an adult?” 

Bleak eyes swept among them. “You have no idea what it is we’ll have on our hands with the children, do you?” she asked. She snorted bitterly. “How could you?” Her shoulders descended with a sigh. Troubled eyes met Barhador’s. “Though my past tells me that trusting men is a simpleton’s mistake, I believe now it lies. You love your families.”

Though no answer was necessary, Barhador responded, “Yes.” 

Holding his gaze, Saldís said, “They don’t.”

Barhador’s eyes closed as Saldís went on to explain that bald statement. By Eru, the young ones were taken from the nursery at the age of five— _five,_ curse Sauron to the outer Darkness—for training. While his niece believed those in the nursery would be unresisting, they would be noisy, frightened. The adults watching over them, mostly slaves or women who’d survived being bred until their fertile years had passed, had little heart left to them. They posed no obstacle. 

But it was the Novices that concerned her more, and Barhador was quickly won over by her arguments. Trained into deceit, those youths were versed not only with the small scimitars they carried but a host of blades, poisons, and unarmed combat. 

Children they might be, but they were deadly in their own right. If the Black Company tried to rescue them, the Novices would rally beneath the senior-most Novice and see to it none of the Company survived the attempt. The only way to avert that was for Saldís to return as an authority figure they would obey, and that meant his niece would have to report to the Duumvirate as if she’d never wavered in her commitment to them. 

A commitment, Barhador was certain, that would be tested. 

For himself, Barhador wished to argue her conclusions, but the Ranger could see no flaw to her logic. Yet what could be done with the children after Caeldor was destroyed? Would they obey Akhora if it became known hers was the hand leading to the destruction of their people? Or must she play the part of Ib-Akhora with Barhador and his Rangers to back her up as “surviving” Black Númenóreans, trapping them all in a masquerade as they tried to undo the damage done to the children? 

_No. We cannot do that._ When the deception came to light, it would further undermine any trust built with the Novices. 

He rubbed his chin, noting the disturbed looks upon many of his men’s faces. How in Eru’s name were they to get the children to a new life in the North? He knew full well that Chieftain Aragorn would never countenance abandoning these children, so as much as he wished to leave them be and ride to his chieftain’s side, he couldn’t do so. The young must be protected no matter the cost. 

A small voice dared ask if the Novices could truly be saved after the thorough conditioning they’d been subjected to. Oh, he knew Saldís was proof of a sort that redemption was possible, but then again, Saldís had spent her formative years at Bifur’s knee. She’d known love, and kindness, and generosity. 

_The youngest will be salvageable._ Those in the nursery. Those still of tender years. But the older children… _Eru aid us._ How to reach the teenagers whose souls had all but been killed by the life they lived? How to restore humanity to them?

His eyes flicked back to his niece. _She is the key._ Once a commander they would have respected, Saldís alone of the Dunedain understood what would motivate these sons and daughters of the line of kings. His thumb rubbed across one knuckle reflectively. 

“I cannot think of a solution,” Saldís concluded quietly. “I cannot abandon them.” Her throat convulsed. “Any of them are me, or what I might have been.” To Barhador’s shock, she did not object when Berenor threw an arm across her shoulders, hauling her to his side. “I have enough blood on my hands,” she added, her eyes imploring Barhador to navigate them through this morass. 

_By all the Valar._ He shared a short glance with his son before saying, “You intend to discuss this with our dwarven members tonight, I hope.”

She nodded a bit stiffly, and he once again found himself in agreement. The dwarves would not react well to the idea of Saldís returning to her prior life. It was grossly risky. Her sire… The dwarf, Bifur, might appear fearsome with his rugged features and the ax lodged in his skull, but it hadn’t taken Barhador more than one glance of the father and daughter together to see how tight the bond between them was. Perhaps tighter than it might have been should Saldís never have been stolen to begin with.

“We will need aid,” Thannor quietly interjected, chin lowered and gaze upon his cousin. “We cannot escort hundreds of children—”

“And freed slaves from Rohan and Gondor,” Medlinor interjected.

Thannor’s expression did not change. “—across dangerous lands by ourselves. We would be overtaken.”

By _children._ A more obscene possibility, he couldn’t imagine. Barhador rubbed his jaw roughly, playing out variables in his mind. He hoped one of the dwarves would have a solution, for like his niece, Barhador was at a loss.

OoOoOo

Bifur had anxiously awaited the night’s assembly, Bofur’s words playing through his mind: “She’s frightened, Cousin, and of what, she’s not saying.” Bifur had near vacated his hammock, seasickness be hanged, but Bofur’s insistence that Saldís had promised to share the source of her fear that night convinced him otherwise.

A decision he now regretted. 

By Mahal, ‘twas was worse than he’d feared. As his daughter informed them of her realization, Bifur battled back rage such as he’d never felt before. None of this was right. He’d just gotten his daughter back, and now he was supposed to let her go off into danger without his spear to defend her? His daughter, back in the midst of the same accursed people who’d almost destroyed her? 

Others might not know the full of it, but Bifur was her adâd. He’d watched. He’d seen what that life still did to her. Since departing Thorin’s Hall, her sleep had changed. No longer did she slumber peacefully. Nay, she lay rigid and tense as if expecting danger even with her family close at hand. 

Words of denial pressed against his lips, but Bifur could not speak them. How could he condemn the wee ones trapped in the same nightmare that had so harmed his lassie? Yet to simply let her go… 

Without word, Bifur surged to his feet and left the gathering with chin low. It was the only way to stop himself from behaving shamefully and shouting his denial for all to hear. The only way to keep from grabbing hold of his daughter and not letting her go. 

Bifur blindly stumbled into the hold, seeking the dark rearmost compartment where supply crates and barrels of fresh water were stored. There, he slumped onto a crate, staring at nothing. 

He did not know if he could accept this.

OoOoOo

Finnin held his peace through the often heated debate as the Black Company met that night, his gaze hooded and locked upon Saldís. _His_ Saldís. Though seasickness had struck him, too, he’d spent as much time at her side as he could manage. When training with the Dunedain, it was more often than not _his_ sword she crossed as they demonstrated tricks common to their enemy. It was to _his_ side she gravitated towards when not her family’s.

Progress. 

Such was his focus upon her that he’d noticed the change in her behavior days before and wondered at it. It was this burden that had returned the assured and spirited lass he was enjoying getting to know to the reserved, burdened person she’d been. 

Aye, and that change worsened over the course of the meeting. He noted the way her face grew more and more expressionless as the hours progressed and no consensus was reached. He witnessed the hardness crowding out every bit of life from her gray eyes when Bifur could bear to hear no more and departed.

Aye, he noted it all…and silently simmered as his whetstone rasped along the edge of his hunting knife. She was girding herself for battle, his lassie, and he could not fault her for it. 

His gaze slid to Lord Hlein and found the dwarf slowly nodding his head. Aye, the dwarf would go with her—it was written upon his face. And if Hlein, then Finnin too. He’d not speak yet, but if she and Hlein returned to Caeldor, he intended to be with them. He already had a way to do so without eliciting suspicion.

Aye, he’d go with her through the very gates of Mordor should it become necessary. He’d failed her as a child. He’d not fail the woman.

OoOoOo

__  
**Sea of Balfalas  
1 February TA 3019**

Bifur had had enough. Aye, and more than enough.

He left his hammock, ignoring as the swaying floor beneath him set his belly to further gyrations, and strode towards the stairs leading from the ship’s hold. 

“Bifur?” he heard Bofur call weakly after him. 

Bifur halted and turned to face his pasty-faced cousin. What Bofur read upon his visage, Bifur wasn’t certain, but his cousin nodded grimly. “Aye, you give her what-for on behalf of us all.”

As that was what Bifur had intended, he grunted, bobbed his head, and stomped his way up the stairs to the deck. 

Days, it had been, since his Saldís had shared the obstacle necessitating a change of plans. Days with no sign of the healing lassie he’d come to know. Nay, ‘twas as if the time between her capture in Dale and the present had not happened. Closed down tighter than a fortress before battle, she was, and Bifur’s patience was at an end. 

If she thought erecting a wall between them was beneficial, she had another thing coming. _Ye still do not understand love, my Saldís._ Self-sacrifice, aye, she seemed to have grasped that, but the sharing? Nay, not so much. She hoarded her burdens like gold, never recognizing how she harmed herself and wounded the rest of them by doing so.

Gaining the deck, he paused to fill his lungs with salty air, dismayed by how the ship’s thrice cursed undulations were amplified there. Swallowing bile, he swiftly found his daughter sitting on that rail, watching the sea as if she’d not attempted to wall out himself, her uncles, and Finnin. For his part, Finnin seemed to take her sudden hardness as fitting. A warrior girding herself for battle, the younger dwarf had labeled it. 

Bifur disagreed, and he’d no patience left for this folly. 

He marched right over to her, grasped her arm, and hauled her behind him towards the center of the ship. He could not say what he must with the nauseating waves mocking him. 

When he deemed he’d gained sufficient space from the ship’s edge and aught but elvish ears—‘twas unlikely any knew Khuzdul, so they mattered not—he turned upon her. “Enough, my Saldís. Ye’ve been cold and distant, and I’m well tired of it.” 

All traces of anger upon her face smoothed out, and a crease appeared between her brows. By Durin, did she not even realize what she did? 

Bifur stepped closer, his anger softening but not departing. “Since the very hour you told us about the Novices and what you must do, there’s been little expression upon your face.” His hand cupped her cheek. “No teasing words or smiles or hugs. Durin knows I understand ye have to return to those people, but ‘tis like you’ve left us whilst still standing here. I’ll not have it.”

That accursed wall rose again, turning silvery gray eyes given to glittering affection into soulless circles of steel. “I’m doing what must be done,” she said sharply. 

“Tearing yourself from us?” he growled. “Refusing to confide what scares you so?”

Her chin lifted. “I’ll deal with it,” she said in a rumble of her own.

“Nay, _we’ll_ deal with it,” he countered. “I know well that you’ve been taught not to trust, my Saldís, but I’d thought you knew you could trust _me.”_

Her face whitened as if struck. Then anger resurged. Nay, it was deeper now, Bifur thought. 

“You know nothing of what is required of me,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve lived it, Adâd. I know exactly what I must do and what I must _be_ to survive.”

Icy bellows filled his chest with dread. _She intends to become that woman again._ The one who’d looked at them so scathingly in Dale. The one who locked the world outside, unfeeling and ruthless.

And that, he realized, was the fear she’d hinted at to Bofur. ‘Twas not danger that frightened her. Nay, ‘twas this. 

_Nay. Nay, I’ll not permit it._ He grabbed onto her upper arms, locking her in place. “I’ll not stand idly by and watch as you destroy yourself, Gêdul.”

She yanked free with a violent jerk, baring her teeth. “And I will not allow sentimentality to cost us victory,” she spat. “I don’t care the cost.” Then in an ominous and low voice, “I will sacrifice what is left of my soul if need be. We are going to destroy them, Adâd. We will save those women and what children can be saved, we will slay Caeldor’s leadership, and then we are going to raze the city to the ground. The Saldís I wish I could be can’t see it done. But Akhora can.” Leaning close, she added, “And will. Nothing, not even you, dwarf, will stop me.”

With that, she stalked off, spine straight and shoulders back. 

Bifur stood rocking with the blow he’d taken. No tears dampened his cheeks. The pain was too intense for that. 

_Nay._ ‘Twas all he could think. Nay, nay, and nay. 

Numbly, he stumbled his way to the hold. He must reach his family. Their lassie was in deeper danger than ever. They had to save her.

This time from herself.

OoOoOo

Saldís’s fury piddled away quickly, abandoning her to a mountain’s weight of shame. From the Vengeance’s prow, she stared blankly at the glittering sea, its merry sparkle at odds with her regret.

What had she done? A knot formed in her throat. 

More and more, she’d been preparing herself to become Akhora in full, and Akhora did not care to have her will crossed. Old ways of thinking, old habits, returned. She had to let them. She knew full well what she’d face upon her return. She must not only perform the role of Akhora without flaw, but _be_ her. 

But to lash out at Bifur? Her chest constricted. How to make him understand without betraying the ordeal she’d be subjected to? 

Her head panned to the right, eyes sliding towards the steps to the hold but not quite reaching them. She needed to apologize. For her words if not her intentions. 

Yet, she delayed, the different sides of herself at war. Another talk with Bifur would certainly lead to more hard truths, more heated arguments. She had to harden herself. When once more immersed in Black Númenórean life, there would be no Adâd to back her up. No Finnin with his overgrown ax to watch her flank. 

But delaying in seeking out her sire proved a costly mistake, for with the setting of the sun came ships from Dol Amroth’s naval fleet, three of them. The Black Vengeance was boarded, her crew interrogated by men made hostile by war. 

_So it’s begun._ Pelargir had been claimed by Corsairs. Dol Amroth struggled to maintain control of the seas close to Cobas Haven, the small bay housing its own ports. Of course the men would be suspicious of the Vengeance. She’d been altered to look disreputable on purpose. 

But the situation swiftly turned to the worse when one sailor, an older man with a cold bitterness written on his face, drew his sword…and named her enemy.

That fast, her past caught up with her. 

In the end, the outcome was, she supposed, inevitable. To save her crew from further suspicion, she remained docile as rough hands locked chains around her wrists. Her chest clenched to hear Bifur’s hurled insults as she was prodded off the Vengeance and down a rope ladder to the dinghy below. The cries of denial that followed then gutted her. 

This had to be her adâd’s worst nightmare.

A shove sent her sprawling across a hard seat in the dinghy. From above, she heard Captain Henedor, he in charge of the small fleet, proclaim, “Save your excuses. We’ve never been at cross purposes with elves or dwarves, but I’m not satisfied with your words. You will answer to Prince Imrahil in Dol Amroth. Attempt to flee at your own peril.”

She had one last glance at Adâd, her uncles, and Finnin staring down with white horror before the sailor next to her grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her face so close his hot breath dampened her cheek. “I remember you, witch. You’ll pay for what you did to Soladir-on-the-Sea. Oh yes, you’ll pay.”

No, she should not have delayed. It was far, far too late for apologies.


	27. The Swan in Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erhm. I think maybe a warning may be in order before this chapter. Violence ahead. Abuse and almost rape. An M rating might be more appropriate for this one, though I tried to keep it tasteful.

_**Sea of Balfalas  
4 February TA 3019** _

Dís joined Bifur and Finnin at the port side rail, unsurprised to find them staring at the Swan in Flight, the Dol Amroth ship upon which Saldís was held, with matching granite expressions. A scan of the vicinity failed to locate Nori, Dori, and Bofur, and that did surprise her. Like Bifur, they’d become constant fixtures on the Black Vengeance’s deck, seasickness not deterring them in the least. 

Quite the opposite. Her ornery dwarves had taken to vomiting over the Vengeance’s side in full view of the Swan in Flight’s crew. Their way of displaying their collective displeasure with the men. 

Had Nori, Bofur, and Dori snuck into the elves’ larder in search of stronger spirits? Dís had overheard them muttering about the possibility of a hidden stash, never mind that the elves had politely informed the three when asked that there was nothing more to be found than the two kegs of ale procured specifically for their dwarven passengers. 

_If they do find something stronger, like as not they’ll drink themselves under the table._

Dís was of a mind to join them. Bifur had voiced no recriminations, but Dís fully accepted that Saldís was her responsibility. Dís and Dwalin were the woman’s lieges, and Dís could not help but feel a measure of failure for not succeeding in keeping Saldís on the Vengeance—even if Saldís _had_ acquiesced, her entire demeanor conveying that the Black Company could not risk their enterprise for one woman.

Rescuing the Novices without Saldís would be more than a small problem. They could scarce hope to do so with her aid. Without it? Mahal, but Dís felt every one of her two hundred and forty-two years that day. 

Dismissing such gloomy thoughts, she examined Bifur and Finnin in turn. “You won’t see her,” she said quietly. “I expect they’ve locked her in the hold.”

Bifur didn’t respond at all. Silent, he’d been, for three days now. _Would I be any different had it been one of my sons?_

Dís would see Bifur through this. She’d see them _all_ through this. She need only wait to speak with Prince Imrahil. By Durin, she hoped the man was of such a character as to be entrusted with the truth of the Black Company’s quest. 

Barhador’s assessment gave her hope, for he’d named the man a just and wise ruler. “Be thankful it is not Denethor we must contend with,” the Ranger had added. “Imrahil can be reasoned with.”

Aye, despite her worries, Dís remained optimistic.

Finnin’s face bore lines of strain as it turned her way. “I swore to protect her,” he said dully. “I should have accompanied her.”

“The men would not allow it,” she reminded him. With a sigh, Dís wrapped one arm around his shoulders. “Trust,” she said. “Captain Henedor swore our Saldís would remain unmolested until she received a hearing with Prince Imrahil.” 

_And our Saldís had better remain unharmed,_ Dís tacked on privately. Dís had told the supercilious, mustached captain that there would be swift retribution, else. Saldís was a Longbeard. If the men of Dol Amroth wished to contest that, they must present their case to Dís first if they wished to remain on good terms with her people. 

More to herself than Finnin, she added, “We need only explain matters to Prince Imrahil when we reach Dol Amroth. With the Dark Lord marching, he will see reason.”

No further words came from the warrior. Dís remained with the two in a silent vigil.

OoOoOo

Pain. Intense, flashing suddenly and carrying with it the iron tang of blood. A blade slashed the tunic Dori had crafted her, leaving in its wake a line of fire across her collarbone. A low, maniacal laugh rumbled as it circled her.

Darkness. A rough, foul-smelling blindfold bruised the flesh around her eyes, sticky with things best not named. Its stench matched her own, acrid and foul. 

_Saldís. I am Saldís._ A constant litany. A ward against dissolution.

She was so close now, Akhora, and Saldís longed to scream with the effort of keeping her contained. 

Impotent rage mixed with humiliation as a man’s rough hands skimmed over her body above her clothes, the action too similar to ingrained fears for her to avoid shaking with fury. Self-castigation tasted bitter on her tongue. _Men._ Old, familiar hatred roiled black through her veins, the sickly feeling strengthening with each violation. How she despised the entire race. 

Yet it was her fault, wasn’t it, she thought as the man’s onion-laced breath panted against her cheek. He whispered words she endeavored not to hear. Her fault for trusting Captain Henedor’s assurances to the Black Company that she would not be harmed. Her fault for submitting in an effort to keep the Company safe from Gondorian suspicions.

_What choice did I have?_ What choice did she ever have?

She supposed in a sense the captain had not lied. The bony and nervous man had not lifted a finger against her. He’d seen her ensconced in this small room, her fetters secured but loose enough to permit her to sit, and assigned one of his men to ensure she did not escape. 

All was businesslike. All perfunctory. It had wooed her into complacency. 

_Idiot._ The guard assigned to her ended up being none other than the same individual who’d yanked her hair and hissed at her in the dinghy, Gart by name. Whether the captain’s selection of him as her guard was one of intention or ignorance didn’t matter in the end. Gart alone had charge of her. And Gart had only one thing on his mind: revenge. Once he had her alone, the games had begun.

Saldís hung suspended from the ceiling by her wrist shackles, shoulders and arms screaming at the unending strain. Time had ceased to hold meaning in a world made black and formless by the blindfold. It was measured only by the endless thirst gluing her tongue to the roof of her mouth, the wounds dealt her body, and the number of times she’d soiled herself.

Gart never released her. Not for food or water. Not to use the privy. 

_Curse you._ In that moment, she wasn’t sure if she was directing that at Gart, Eru or herself. Bloody rage crowded in at the edges of her mind. The double assault—body and mind—pushed Saldís swiftly to the edges of herself. Without Akhora’s shielding presence, every hit, every slice grated on raw nerves.

She felt the greenest Novice, and there was not a thing she dared do about it. 

A fist hit her stomach without warning. The metal hook suspending her shackles squeaked as her body rocked. All breath rushed from her lungs in a low wheeze. Such blows had become commonplace. With each, the pain radiated deeper. 

She bit down on the gag, holding in the growl of fury. She could not permit anger any quarter. It had to remain contained. 

The Dol Amrothians already suspected the Black Vengeance’s crew. Why would dwarves untainted by Sauron defend such a person as herself, Saldís had heard whispered by more than one man aboard the dinghy. What could have induced elves to transport her crew? What sorcery was afoot, and did they harbor a witch in their midst? 

How much worse would that grow if the anger won and she rampaged, baptizing the Swan in Flight with Gondorian blood from bow to stern? And that would happen if Akhora won free. 

A hard boot slammed into the back of her knee, adding new pain to the smorgasbord assailing her. _Adâd._ The word whispered through her mind. She would do nothing that might jeopardize him. Nay, not while any fragment of her Saldís-self remained in control. 

Early in her captivity, she’d willingly welcomed the return of the Akhora mindset, granting that cold persona free rein as it rose up at the familiar call of pain. This, her Akhora side knew well and was better versed at withstanding. Long-ingrained methods of coping returned. Saldís’s nerves had hardened, prepared to endure the ordeal ahead. Pain had dulled as she thrust the awareness of her body’s agony behind a bulwark of icy fury…

…but it had been a mistake. That side of herself had blazed forth with uncontrolled wrath. Instantly, her mind had filled with plots to bring about her tormentor’s death, followed swiftly by the Swan in Flight’s entire crew. They would _pay_ for touching her, from the sniveling captain to the youngest ship’s boy. She would mount their heads on poles for their companions to see, a warning against—

Horrified, Saldís had cut off the flood of obscene and crimson images rushing through her mind, recoiling and latching on to the newer Saldís-self with feverish resolution. For Adâd and Finnin and Uncle Bofur and sweet Dori, she could not allow that other side of herself loose. It would end in a bloodbath, indiscriminate and brutal. 

Gondorian justice would have to be exceptional, indeed, to spare the Company after they’d unleashed such a terror as herself upon them. No. She must resist the anger, even if that meant allowing the grimy man to harm her body without complaint. 

Even if it meant battling as Saldís.

Fractured. By Berúthiel’s foul cats, she was truly broken. Had it begun when she created Akhora as a ruse? Or was it when she shunted all her hatred into that persona, divorcing herself from it for fear? Perhaps it was when she’d willed herself to fade, closing away all emotions that her Saldís-self harbored and leaving behind only the Akhora-self with her cold rage. 

What she’d never dreamed was that with the return of her ability to feel love and laughter, the control over her darker emotions would erode, too. The anger of her past was naught compared to what roiled through her now. 

By Durin, remaining Saldís now was the most difficult thing she’d ever done. Every fiber of her being rose up and screamed at her to end the torment, but rage cost Saldís too much ground to be permitted. Tempting—aye, it was so tempting—to simply submit and let it run roughshod over her. To curse the consequences and unchain her deadly side.

To not feel anything but rage. 

A coward’s way. One that abdicated all responsibility and forsook goodness.

_Such vaunted morals,_ her Akhora-self mocked. _Yet what do they gain you?_

Pain. 

_Therek ikhlit,_ (hold firm) Saldís thought, more and more taking refuge in the language of her people to distance herself from Akhora. 

Her Akhora side despised what it deemed her weakness, venomously hissing it was the only solution. What did it care if Gondorians died? Men died. They _deserved_ to die. 

Back on the Vengeance, Saldís had feared that seventy years as Akhora would not be dismissed easily. It was all she had known for almost a century. 

In the formless, nightmarish forever, Saldís discovered she’d been more right than she’d known. How her thoughts returned to her, her lofty statements of sacrificing her own soul if need be. Now, she learned the truth. Sacrifice her soul, and no good would come of it. She might too easily once again find herself fighting on the wrong side. Akhora couldn’t be trusted.

Adâd had been right.

Big hands again explored her clothed body, this time with more thoroughness, and Saldís swallowed thickly. The fool of a man had no idea he courted death itself. If Saldís failed, Akhora would burst loose, and he would die painfully. With each fondle, the war within Saldís raged higher. Once again, two sides of the same woman fought over possession of her body like two dogs a bone. 

But this time, Saldís swore she would not lose. 

Time passed. Her boots were yanked roughly from her feet, leaving her bare toes to slick across cold wooden planks. Then the soles of her feet wept bloody tears as a sharp edge— _dagger,_ a distant part of her noted—lashed across the sensitive skin. A jerk at the neck informed her when the _ugrad_ stole Bjartur’s pendant, and another at the scalp when her adoption braid was once again severed. 

On and on the battle raged. Saldís filled her mind with Adâd’s face, and those of her family. Bjartur, Martur, and Sigrun. The Brothers. 

Finnin’s lazy smile, the way his blue eyes descended to half mast as he teased, flickered through her mind. By her soul, she wished to be back on the Vengeance sparring with him. Her ears ached to hear Finnur’s loud insults at his brother, followed by Finnin’s equally loud sallies. 

She had to survive. _Saldís_ had to survive. Adâd and the others could not wind up in a Gondorian prison. Too much was at stake, and whatever happened on this accursed ship _would_ affect the Company.

With each progressive assault, Gart hissed in her ear obscene fantasies, peppering them with comments about what had happened to his wife and children when Saldís’s team had raided his remote village of Soladir-on-the-Sea over a decade before. Her eyes scrunched beneath the blindfold. She remembered that raid. Remembered the poor fisherman who had yanked her face cover and turban from her head just as her sword had pierced his chest. She’d dispatched him with all the dispassion of a farm wife wringing the neck of a chicken.

Aye, she remembered. And aye, she understood her guilt. She understood punishment for that bloody day and too many like it was well deserved. If not for Gart’s softly hissed intentions, his painful gropes, perhaps pity would have won the day, displacing fury. 

Perhaps. 

For like herself, he had been molded by events beyond his control. She was the product of Kimilzor’s interference, and Gart was a product of hers. The irony, the bitter knowledge that any remaining family Gart possessed was endangered by his retribution, was tragic.

But when he cut her clothes from her body, stealing the last piece of _self_ that had remained private, pity was smothered under a hatred big enough to devour the world. She hated him. She hated men. 

And she hated Kimilzor. 

Unreasoning rage funneled away from Gart, rushing in Kimizor’s direction. (Saldís frantically blocked Akhora from seizing control.) _His_ had been the hand to steal her away from Adâd and turn her into the monster she’d become. _His_ had been the command that had caused that fateful raid. All of it— _all of it_ —flowed from her sire’s actions. He who should have loved and sacrificed for Saldís and Valkthor both had instead seen them twisted and contorted into ravening beasts. 

He’d even turned them against one another. 

_I am tainted._ Kimilzor’s foul blood moved through her veins like poison. Aye, tainted. She must be to have known goodness with her Khazâd and still struggle with the temptation to be become Akhora.

Adâd… She needed him. To chain the beast. To tell her that she was not so lost as she was slowly coming to believe. For with each indignity, each scrape of the ugrad’s teeth on her skin, his hot breath panting in excitement as his dagger opened lines on her back, thighs, and torso, the many reasons for her to remain Saldís slipped from her grasp, one at a time. 

Was Saldís real? The thought appeared in that nameless forever. Or was she a delusion Akhora used to deceive herself into believing she could be good? 

Madness. Nay, _she_ decided what she would be. Saldís. But she had to hold on. The Swan in Flight would reach Dol Amroth. Her plight would be discovered. 

_They won’t care,_ Akhora sing-songed in a silky voice. _The men aboard this ship know what transpires in this room. Are you so certain they don’t sneak in to join in the fun?_

_Mahal._ The plea escaped despite her awareness of her forsaken status.

She shook her head once, sharply. No. She had to withstand this grisly trial. Dol Amroth would see this nightmare ended. She’d gain her hearing before Prince Imrahil and feel Bifur’s arms around her once again. 

She just had to hold on. For Adâd and her family. For Finnin and for herself.

She couldn’t become that monster again. She couldn’t endure it, she knew it in her bones. If Akhora once again ruled, Saldís would not have the courage to lift her head ever again. The shame would be too great. 

_Just hold on,_ she whispered to herself. _Endure._

OoOoOo

Thunder rumbled overhead, a deep and rolling sound that traveled from one end of the sky to another. Rain fell in blinding sheets, obscuring his sight as Bifur struggled with the rope in his hands. He’d not leave this spot. With resolute stubbornness, he continued to lash himself to both the port rail and a metal brace bolted into the deck of the Black Vengeance.

Lightning flashed, and more thunder boomed. The waves swelled to heights taller than the buildings of men. ‘Twas a sight he’d never dreamed possible. 

_Finnin had the right of it. Dwarves do not belong at sea._

Though Dís had ordered all of the Khazâd down below, Bifur had refused. He’d not leave this spot. Not when his heart feared so keenly for his lassie, and guilty regret haunted his every breath.

All around, elves rushed to secure the ship. The few Rangers who had lingered on deck to assist hastily retreated below as waves crashed against the Vengeance’s starboard side. One mast snapped before its sails could be retracted and plowed across the deck, splintering the rail as it arrowed into the sea and vanished from view.

Bifur shook his head. ‘Twas insanity, traveling by sea. 

“Here,” Finnin shouted beside him. A second set of hands appeared through the torrential rain, pale hands that helped him to secure the knots. “You should get below,” Finnin added, his jaw tight beneath his sopping beard—proof enough that the dwarf knew his argument would fall on deaf ears. “Saldís would not wish you to risk yourself.”

Aye, ‘twas true, but he’d not lose sight of the Swan in Flight. If that ship went down, Bifur would be after it in a flash. His blade would release the ropes securing him in short order, their strength notwithstanding. Bifur would not lose his daughter. 

Mahal, what must she be thinking? That the Black Company had let her be taken by men… It had been at her own insistence, but his mind filled with scenarios, each showing her agonizing over the hard words she’d spoken to him. 

_What have ye done, ye old fool?_ The guilt near stole the breath from his lungs. Mayhap their last talk would not have ended so badly if he’d not lost his patience. Mayhap by arguing, he’d only worsened the situation. 

And mayhap he should have listened to his daughter instead of denying her words. She was an adult. Her words were true —she knew better what she’d face than he. Yet he’d commanded her as if she was still of a size to bounce upon his knee. 

‘Twas fear, he admitted. Fear that fate would rip her away from him again. He could not lose his daughter, not to death or the cold person she’d once been. That she feared that Akhora side of herself… It echoed his own fears. 

_Could_ his Saldís be swallowed up by it? 

Nay, Bifur would not let that Gondorian ship out of his sights. He could not.

Once finished securing Bifur to the ship, Finnin clapped him on the arm. Blue eyes met brown, a silent sharing of the fear they both harbored. _Their_ lassie, caged by men? 

The moment ended as another wave almost carried Finnin over the side. Only Bifur’s quick grab saved the warrior as the ropes they’d just secured grew taut, preventing Bifur from being swept off his feet. “Go. Now,” he barked as soon as the deck righted and the other dwarf found his feet.

Finnin nodded shortly. Without a backward glance, he ran to the hold.

OoOoOo

The ship lurched, catapulting Finnin headlong down the stairs. Strong arms caught him before he could break his fool neck, and based upon the hard, lumpy coat his cheek smashed into, he knew full well who it was doing the saving.

“What took you so long?” Finnur’s chest rumbled beneath his ear. “Where’s Bifur?” Before Finnin could formulate a response, his brother burst, “Ye _left_ him? I thought you wished to win my Saldís, and let me tell you, this is no way to prove yourse—”

“Your Saldís?”

“Aye, _my_ Saldís. She’s been my friend longer than your feckless interest can claim.”

Finnin gnashed his teeth together. Feckless? Guilty self-recriminations raged stronger than the storm outside. _Aye, feckless,_ Finnin thought. What use his ax or loyalty when his Saldís was stolen away by men while he stood idle? 

“Bifur is on deck,” he said, finding his footing and freeing himself from his brother’s grasp with a jerk. 

But then another jolt rocked the ship, and both brothers slammed into one wall, arms reaching for one another. A veritable waterfall formed upon the stairs for a moment. “He’s tied down,” Finnin shouted over the din. “He’s not going overboard. If Bifur ends up in the sea, it’s only because this thrice-cursed ship has taken him there.”

A possibility that seemed more likely with each passing minute. The ship tipped in the opposite direction. 

Finnur promptly groaned and vomited all over Finnin’s tunic. 

Finnin’s chin dipped as he stared at his chest. Aye, it figured.

OoOoOo

Saldís swung back and forth with the Swan in Flight’s convulsions, her ears deafened by a tremendous clap of thunder. A sudden deluge of water seeped between the wooden planks overhead, and she gasped at the icy shock of it even as it robbed her of precious body heat and burned the gashes marring her skin.

By Durin, she could not stop shaking. The cold seemed to penetrate to her very bones.

The booming thunder faded, and the unexpected shower dribbled to a halt. Her ears rang with the softer groans of wood as the ship canted dangerously to one side. 

This storm would doom them all. 

How much longer until they reached Dol Amroth…or would they? It had belatedly occurred to her that if Gart acted on his own—a possibility she tried to believe—his actions would come to light upon their arrival. 

_If_ the man acted alone. _If_ any cared, her Akhora-self provided. That the captain had refused every request by dwarves, Rangers, and elves to accompany her seemed damning. 

Saldís tried to ignore that cynicism—it would goad her anger to uncontrollable levels. If Gart acted alone, he would need to dispose of the evidence. Wouldn’t he? By Durin, she couldn’t think straight. She’d had only stolen snippets of sleep in…too long…and the battle for her soul had only served to drain her further. 

The storm brought with it one consolation. Her tormentor had been summoned in haste to assist in securing the ship. A surcease, though she refused to succumb to exhausted slumber as her body begged permission to do. She’d gone without sleep before, just as she’d gone without food. 

To counteract the cold and bring life back into her blood-drained wrists and hands, she pulled herself up by the manacles, shoulders screaming, until one hand could grasp the chain. From there, she did a series of pull-ups, restoring blood flow to her limbs. Warmth returned to her body at the exertion.

Panting, she allowed her grip to slacken and dropped to dangle from her fetters. She bit down on her gag, stifling a moan as bruised flesh objected to the rough treatment. With a ragged inhale, she panted through the pain. 

The door squeaked open, and Saldís stilled, ears attuned to the slightest noise. The door closed with a mute little _click,_ and heavy steps drew nearer. Breathy chortles sounded from her left even as the ship teetered, a wave crashing overhead with a scream of wood and rigging. 

By Kimilzor’s black heart, it sounded as if the ship was being torn asunder. A pang of alarm shot through her. If the Swan in Flight fared so ill, what about the Vengeance? 

_The elves are the superior sailors._ A truth she fully believed. She’d witnessed those elves in action. But fear took hold. Everything she cared about was on that ship. If it went down… 

Men would die. Sauron could raze all of Arda for all she would care. The fate of others didn’t concern Akhora, and Saldís feared that in her grief she’d find little motivation to stop Akhora from overtaking her.

Instantly, a counter thought lifted its head. _What of Bjartur? Do you so quickly discard Uncle Bombur?_ Without Adâd, she wasn’t confident even those ties would be strong enough to anchor her. She was so _angry._ Akhora lurked so close to the surface now that Saldís’s thoughts were splashed with images of sickening violence. 

Rustling sounded off to one side. Her body thrummed with tension. What next? What was the worthless _ugrad_ up to? 

“A flute?” Gart’s nasal voice came abruptly at her ear, and her blood both fired and turned icy. He’d already taken Bjartur’s pendant and her braid. She’d thought the flute safely hidden in her boot, uncontaminated by his touch. “Who did you steal this from, Corsair witch?”

Her hands balled into fists. Every part of her wished nothing more than to kick back, break the man’s knee, and then do as much damage as she could while he was down. _Kill him,_ Akhora howled. _Then we go hunting._

Clammy hands wrenched her head back by the hair, the grip bruising. “I asked you a question, whore.”

She snorted, unable to resist communicating her utter disdain. Had the fool forgotten she was gagged? Akhora sneered. _Amateur._

Mahal. The line blurred between the two sides of herself. She couldn’t let that happen. She—

A fist slammed into her side, right below her rib cage. Saldís moaned as the throb in her side intensified. 

Akhora whispered that she’d ridden out punishment by the Duumvirate. Pain, she knew. _Let me free, let me free, lemmefreefreefree._

Saldís tried to view her situation dispassionately, drowning out the Akhora-fury. It was her nakedness that disturbed her most. The deep vulnerability it generated was both humiliating and disturbing. Durin’s ax, she’d endured worse. Nudity was a paltry thing to be so unsettled over. The man had stolen her attire. It did not change anything but—

His tongue licked across her breast, then teeth bit down, hard. _He dies,_ her Akhora-self howled. 

“You think to mock me?” he growled. “By the time I’m done with you, witch, you’ll know who is in charge here.”

With one hand to her bare belly, he pressed her back into his chest. Akhora struggled to lift her leg, to ram her foot into his knee, dislodging it. _No!_ Saldís’s throat tightened even as her heart seized at the feel of the man’s open shirt and thin mat of chest hair on her bare skin. 

A terrifying intuition flared. 

The man heaved her upwards, freeing her manacles from their support, then he dumped her onto the cold, wet floor. 

Saldís landed hard on her left side, chained hands before her. Her heart raced like a frightened rabbit. _Adâd. Finnin._ If her instincts told her true, Akhora would win free. Saldís wouldn’t be able to halt it. 

She flailed, legs scrabbling for purchase on the slick floor, but they were numb from disuse. Her arms burned with fire from being suspended overhead for too long, but they worked. By _Durin_ they worked. Lips peeling back from teeth around her gag, she prodded herself to a seat, all senses alert. 

The boat dipped, dropping into what must have been a wave’s trough. Before she recovered her balance, a hard boot caught her unawares in the gut. With a choked cry, she folded around it helplessly. A second kick followed, snapping her head back on her neck.

Akhora roared, demanding release, and Saldís sobbed silently. Nay. She couldn’t fail. 

“By the Valar,” a new voice intruded, one deeper than the one she’d been trapped with for too long. “What are you doing?” Then louder, “What are you _doing?”_ The door reverberated loudly as it slammed shut. “What have you done, Gart?” the newcomer rumbled lowly. 

“I’m owed this, Ferthin. This thieving whore murdered my family.” The boot once again connected with her belly, driving the air from her lungs.

“She’s claimed by the dwarves, man. Are you touched? Prince Imrahil will have your head if this leads to war!” Then in a growl, “Get above decks. The captain will deal with you—”

A sickening thud, and Saldís heard a body fall to her right. What had—? 

A cruel hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her skull into a wall. Dazed, she slumped onto the floor when released. A masculine body followed.

_Nay._ Saldís struggled to coax her limbs into obedience, terror and rage exploding in tandem as she felt him writhe atop her body as he tore at his own clothes. 

That fast, Akhora shattered the bonds containing her. This would not happen. She’d die before she permitted it. 

_The timing must be right._ She pretended to struggle weakly, knowing an _ugrad_ such as this would be excited by it, and waited, the lioness allowing the prey to believe it was safe. 

When his hands fumbled with the latches on his trousers, she struck with a low roar of rage. The fool had forgotten—though blinded, his sudden proximity allowed her to feel exactly where he was. 

It would cost him his life.

The chains of her fetters circled his neck fast as a serpent’s strike. She yanked the noose tight, sealing off his windpipe. 

Half naked man-flesh thrashed against her, and she swallowed back bile. Hands hit at her, and nails scratched in a blind panic. _Amateur,_ Akhora thought again with scorn. 

Then a knife slashed her arm. She plowed her forehead into his. Pain exploded through her skull, but she counted it a win as the would-be rapist’s struggles weakened. 

She waited, jaw clenched and arms straining to preserve the lethal clasp about his neck. Her heart slowed as his pitiful attempts at freedom stopped. Still, she did not move. The minute jerks of his body diminished. 

After a brief hesitation, she swapped her grip, placing both ends of the chain in one hand. Her free hand searched for his throat, seeking a pulse. 

_Dead. Good._ Akhora shoved the disgusting corpse off of her, anger pounding through her veins. 

Saldís wrenched back control, horrified at how swiftly she’d lost sovereignty of her own body. Fear for herself and her family whipped her heart into a hard gallop. _I am mad._

Next came despair. All her efforts to safeguard her family, wasted. If Gart had murdered the other sailor, would men believe her protestations of innocence? Or would she be blamed for all that had transpired within this room? What would this cost Adâd? 

Saldís fought to beat back the residual bits of Akhora-rage, chest tight as she searched Gart’s body for his weapon. She located it on the floor at this side. With ginger care, she sliced the blindfold from her eyes, blinking as the light of a single lantern blinded her from where it swung upon a hook near the door. 

She could not stop shaking. Her hands trembled violently as she patted Gart’s corpse in search of keys. Slowly, her eyesight cleared, revealing the unknown occupant of the room slumped in the corner by the door. He had a hard face with weathered skin and dark brown hair worn in a queue. 

Akhora tightened her grip on the dagger. _End him. End him now._ The blade lifted.

Saldís panted, falling back onto her hind end. _By all the dwarf fathers._ Her shaking intensified. She’d almost done it. She’d been but a breath away from murdering the other man. 

Realization stole what body heat remained to her. She was dangerous. Perhaps truly mad. If any man ventured near her in her current state, she was not certain she could prevent herself from slaying him. 

Adâd’s face flashed through her mind, followed swiftly by Nori, Bofur, and Dori. What would they think? _Adâd._ Could Bifur’s love extend to loving a daughter harboring the evil desires now filling her mind? 

With her head so fuzzy, reasoning was beyond her. Reality was as uncertain as the boat dipping and swaying beneath her.

_Lack of sleep,_ a slender thread of rationality declared. _Get free. Away from men. The rest will follow._

She obeyed. She had no trust left for men or herself. Not currently. She could not remain aboard. It was too perilous for all involved.

_Off. Leave the ship. Now._ Saldís could permit neither storm nor Gondorian to stop her.

Wrenching the key from Gart’s pocket, she set to work on her shackles, starting with her hands. The shaking of her limbs mixed with numbness from the cold had the thrice-cursed thing slipping across the locking mechanism a handful of times. She persisted, each breath a high-pitched and panicked gasp until the key clicked into place. A twist, and her wrist was free.

The other shackles followed swiftly, discarded in a puddle between her feet. With two fingers to the unknown sailor’s throat, she ascertained he lived…and by Durin, she let him stay that way, no matter how much her Akhora-self raged for another outlet. No matter how her fingers itched to wrap around his neck and—

_No._

Body still trembling, she rifled through her belongings, finding her clothes slashed to bits. She grabbed up Bjartur’s necklace from within the nest of fabric and draped the cord over her neck. Rage threatened to topple her from the throne of her own mind as her hand closed about the pendant. Her sight turned red as it returned to the body of the man who’d stolen from and beaten her. 

It was too easy to imagine hacking his corpse to bits. Akhora wished nothing more. To eviscerate the one who’d dared lay hand on her until he was unrecognizable. Until every bit of him was stamped out.

_No, I am Saldís,_ she wept in her soul. _Adâd’s Saldís._

Slowly, the impulse died. Akhora slipped, losing a sliver of ground. 

_Adâd’s Saldís,_ she repeated, the words a talisman. _And Bofur’s, Nori’s, Dori’s and Finnin’s._ The honor she’d learned from them, she would fight tooth and nail to retain. 

She permitted a shudder to wrack her body, centering herself. Then lifting her head, Saldís proceeded. She could do this. She _would._

Saldís grimly wrestled the clothing from Gart’s body, pants and shirt both. The feel of his clothes touching her skin was enough to cause her to gag, but what choice was there? She didn’t trust herself near the other man, and she refused to remain unclothed.

A flashback of Gart’s tongue upon her skin tore through her mind. Nay, better to wear his clothing than the alternative.

Spying her flute, she snatched it up and tucked it into a pocket, buttoning a flap over it to secure it. That done, she turned her attention to self-defense. In less than a minute, she’d confiscated every weapon upon the two men. Their leather belts served to lash their swords to her back, and shoelaces tied the pommels to their sheaths. She would not lose either to the sea if she could help it. 

Then their daggers. She hefted them in her hands. Decided.

The stranger’s dagger, she palmed. She did not wish to attack these Gondorians, but better to wound one when escaping than let Akhora rampage through the rest. 

Gart’s dagger, she left where it belonged.

Pinning his privates to the floor.

OoOoOo

Saldís stole up a set of stairs with care, the boat lurching with the storm’s fury. The deck of the ship proved almost invisible through the sheets of torrential rain pounding down. Search as she did, she could find no sign of the Black Vengeance. The storm cloaked her completely.

No hope of reaching it, or Adâd. 

The ship ducked and swayed beneath her feet, and she clutched the door frame. Men bellowed nearby, but she couldn’t see them. _Nor will they see me,_ a part of her snarled. 

By the dwarf fathers, this was madness. To risk the sea? In this storm? 

Aye, but to remain… Her skin crawled, and her fury raged. She couldn’t. Not when it risked freeing Akhora, mayhap permanently. Not when Adâd’s fate might be endangered by what her other self might do. 

With a desperate prayer she knew none would heed, she bolted across the deck to the side of the ship. With one deep, shaky inhale, she vaulted over the rail.


	28. Storms

_**Sea of Balfalas  
4 - 5 February TA 3019**_

The instant she splashed into the sea, Saldís was at war. 

Each breath was frantically stolen as both sea and storm conspired to deprive her of air. Waves smashed into her without mercy, often thrusting her underwater as if by a massive and wroth hand. When she won free of those, her head poking above the surface, the storm’s deluge tried its best to drown her from above. Her nostrils and throat soon burned from the constant influx of water. 

Lightning crackled and boomed in random flashes. The sea surged to frightening heights. ‘Twas as if chaos itself had been unleashed, erasing all order. 

By her soul, jumping overboard had been madness, but what other choice had she? For even now, it was on the battlefield of her mind that the tempest raged hottest. Saldís’s attention had wavered the second her body plunged into the sea, and Akhora had capitalized upon it, shattering fetters to wrestle for supremacy. 

_Cease! You will see us dead,_ Saldís snapped at her darker side. By Mahal, she could not afford to have her focus split, especially with exhaustion leadening her limbs. A mistake here would equal death.

_I am the stronger,_ Akhora hissed. _Give over._

_Never._ Not even to save her life. Saldís would not become a monster again. She’d seen with fresh eyes what Akhora was capable of. Aye, Akhora’s intentions upon the Swan in Flight had been the equivalent to the ripping off of blinders. Saldís cared to see no more. 

_Then close your weakling eyes,_ Akhora snarled. _Only one of us is strong enough to endure this trial. Me. **You** will never undermine my security again._ Images raced through her mind: Saldís refusing to kill Mizando on the training grounds. Saldís hesitating to slay the Gondorians during her last Test, and Saldís protecting Nori from Valkthor.

Akhora’s scathing hatred for her Saldís-self blasted through her mind, distracting Saldís for one precious heartbeat. It proved costly. A wave crashed down, submersing her before she could gasp. 

_Urkhas kûd,_ she spat, thoughts of Nori bringing his favorite expletive to mind. (Demon dung) She scrambled upwards, tired legs and arms propelling her against the sea’s downward pull. She would not die this way. 

_You fool!_ Saldís snapped. _Do you not see how reckless your hatred makes you?_ Then with deeper fury, she accused, _You would rather now that Nori had died in Dale. Wouldn’t you?_

_The bearded runts ruined everything,_ Akhora snarled. _Had you ceased to exist, I’d never have lost my position among our people. I’d never have been_ imprisoned _by weakling Gondorians! You are to blame, and by the Eye, I will see you stamped out until not so much as a piece of you remains!_

Saldís’s hands fisted, then return to cup water as she swam upwards. _By Mahal,_ she thought privately. _I **am** mad._ She must be. Since Gart, the split within her own psyche felt deeper. Akhora’s presence was an alien, cold thing lurking in the recesses of her mind. ‘Twas like harboring an invader within her own skin. 

Revulsion burst forth anew. That a piece of herself could will Nori away—‘twas a spear to the heart. Her resolute strokes faltered as she confronted the evil within her own soul. 

Only Adâd’s confidence in her, his unwavering loyalty, steadied her. As vile as she’d once been, Saldís was not that now. 

_Aren’t you?_ Akhora crooned. _I **am** you._

They…she?…broke to the surface and inhaled, frantic for air. A deafening boom rumbled through the heavens, and the rain intensified, turning into stinging sheets.

Saldís screamed her frustration, despair, and denial to the sky, then choked on briny water as it smacked her across the face. She was Saldís, curse her own black soul to the deepest pit. Not Akhora, not anymore. Never again. She was Adâd’s Saldís! 

_I don’t think so._ Akhora wrestled to supplant her Saldís-self for dominance. _You will give up and hide when adversity grows too difficult. You always do._

Saldís’s teeth ground together, the barb striking home. Aye, she’d given up before. And aye, it had spelled disaster. This time would be different.

She forced shaky limbs to thrash against the sea’s pull. A wave swelled beneath her, lifting her into the air as the rain lashed her face. 

This time, Akhora wouldn’t win, for unlike the great Ib-Akhora, Saldís had over a dozen reasons to fight for her existence, most sporting heavy beards and shorter statures. If evil lurked in her soul, she would—by all the dwarf fathers—eradicate it. 

She was a Longbeard. None would steal her from her Khazâd and cause Adâd grief. Not without a battle fit for the bards to recount for generations to come. Death or annihilation would have to be crammed down her throat and wrung from her very neck.

_Such a charming invitation,_ Akhora said silkily. _I believe I will take you up on that._

“I won’t…” Choke. “Let…you… _win!”_ she roared to both the elements and Akhora. “I am Saldís!” Her own death staring her in the face, Saldís desired this new life she’d been given with zealous fervor. A life with love. Adâd. Her uncles. Even the Rangers. Finnin. 

_You won’t take this from me,_ she promised angrily. 

_You?_ Akhora sneered. _You, insignificant and pathetic whelp, are nothing. By the Eye, you could not even slay a **man** without me. You almost cost me MY life. It is I who has the strength. I am real. You are nothing but a delusion I will divest myself of once and for all. It was a nice dream—a stroll down memory lane, really—but the dream is done._

The darkness within Saldís’s soul frothed like a shaken keg, the pressure growing and growing. Though she tried to keep the lid pressed down with all her might, the foam still spewed out uncontrollably. Akhora sludge poured through her veins…and into her mind. 

Her thoughts became a cyclone of violence and hatred. While the storm and sea raged outside, the two factions of herself echoed it inside as they attempted to destroy each other. 

_You will not prevail,_ Saldís growled even as Akhora flooded her mind with memories of all the worst atrocities she had committed, trying to force Saldís to retreat in shame. 

A sudden undertow yanked her attention from the gruesome pictures. Saldís gasped, shocked at the strength of the current. _Durin’s beard._

Gritty determination kept her going, but she’d be lying if she said Akhora’s volleys did not strike home. The memories… 

_That’s not who I am anymore,_ she cried angrily. 

_You do not exist,_ Akhora hissed. _I am done pretending otherwise._

On and on the battled raged. The rain’s intensity waned and waxed by turns. Waves smashed into her from all sides. ‘Twas as if all of creation wished Saldís stamped out: Eru, the Valar, the elements…even herself. 

Saldís’s body flagged, stumbling through the familiar motions of swimming with greater frequency. Her already depleted reserves leeched away too fast, drained by both fights. Through it all, Akhora whispered to accept the inevitable, crooning that she could continue on…and would even do what she could to spare any dwarf to cross her path.

Saldís recoiled and growled her denial, but as she battled on—as fatigue pressed in all the harder and what felt like hours passed without any sign of the storm diminishing—the dangled carrot adopted an alluring sheen. By Mahal, if she could trust in Akhora’s promise… Tendrils of temptation wormed their way into her wearied thoughts. 

_Nay._ She forced her weak limbs to swim on and held Adâd’s face before her like a talisman. He would grieve if Akhora won. Saldís would not cause him pain. Not while life remained in her.

_I can ensure he never suspects,_ Akhora sang darkly.

Saldís choked on a sob, her emotions so frayed by fatigue that she could not contain them. Of one thing she was certain: Akhora would never fool Adâd. The thought stabilized her. She was so very, very tired, but she would not yield. _You. Will. **Never.** Win._

The two wars stormed on. Akhora continued with her silken words internally, while externally Saldís doggedly wrestled her way to the sea’s surface every time a wave thrust her under. She permitted herself no quarter, and she jettisoned all thoughts of failure. 

She would win. Saldís, not Akhora.

Inexplicably, Finnin’s face filled her mind. When one wave plunged her beneath the surface and it seemed she would reach air too late, she found herself longing for sight of his calm blue eyes. She craved sight of his lazy smile. 

Saldís’s head broke free of water. She dragged in air through open lips, coughing on rain. 

No. She would emerge from this Test victorious. She had to. Bifur had been left for decades to mourn before. She refused to allow a repeat.

Another wave swelled beneath her, lifting her into the air. A heartbeat later, she sank in its wake. Thunder clapped overhead, and lightning flashed. She got a split-second view of towering walls of water to either side of her. One began to crest.

_By the Eye,_ Akhora whispered. 

The watery behemoth crashed down like an anvil, driving all breath from her lungs as it thrust her deep into the sea’s belly.

OoOoOo

Finnin stared blankly into space as he clung to a sturdy support within the Vengeance’s hold, face stoic and clothes soiled from his brother’s—aye, and his own—vomit. With each violent tossing of the ship, nausea flared higher.

Up and down the oblong space, identical wooden posts bore other passengers, Rangers and dwarves together. It was a sight better than being catapulted about along with their belongings. 

By his ax, the stench permeating the hold fair seared the nostrils, but there was naught to be done about it with a passel of seasick dwarves crammed into the confined space. A miserable experience, this was, and no two ways about it. 

Finnin scarcely cared. His mind was consumed with one thing: his lassie. How could he have permitted it? By his beard, if aught happened to his ebon-haired beauty, he wouldn’t be forgiving himself. 

Though there was little evidence outwardly, his heart stubbornly maintained that Saldís was softening towards him. There were times a light appeared in her bonny gray eyes that stole the strength from his knees. 

Finnin’s eyes shut. By Durin, he wished another chance to kiss her. _Next time,_ he swore, _I’ll be wooing you slowly, Bâhzundushuh._ (My raven.) He inhaled shakily, aching to ascertain her wellness. _Be safe, Dushin-Mizim. You’ve survived worse. That, I’m knowing full well._

It was the ship carrying her that had him more concerned. Never did he think to hold elves in esteem, but in this he had no doubts—their ships were far superior to the one on which his Saldís was held. If the Vengeance struggled so, how fared the Swan in Flight? 

_Fool,_ he castigated himself for the hundredth time. He should not have let her out of his sight.

A boot nudged his ankle. Finnin’s attention turned to the dwarf hugging the wood post with him: Ragan. With the way the boat rocked, it was no simple feat to make eye contact, but Finnin managed it. 

One blond eyebrow winged upwards upon discovering himself being on the receiving end of a hard glare from his shorter friend. Ragan’s lips parted, then his expression dipped towards impatience as thunder roared, the intense sound reverberating through the Vengeance’s very hull. Once it had passed, his wild-haired friend leaned close and growled, “Stop that.” 

Stop…? Finnin’s lips flattened, and his shoulder muscles tightened. 

“When I first realized which way the wind was blowin’, I could not understand what you saw in that woman o’ yours,” his friend dared say, his voice pitched loud enough to rise above the storm’s cacophony. 

Before Finnin could choose whether to initiate a brawl then and there or merely give his friend the tongue lashing of his life, an object sailed across the hold to smack Ragan on the side of the head. What the object was, Finnin didn’t see, but he snorted as his friend’s curly black head whipped around to glower at the projectile’s source. 

Berenor’s shadowed face held no amusement as he stared back unapologetically. The auburn-haired man changed his stance, freeing one hand to grip a crossbeam overhead so that he faced Finnin and Ragan directly. The Ranger seemed little moved by the way the world around him bucked and swayed. 

Despite all, Finnin almost chuckled. It pleased Finnin to see not only Berenor but the other two Brothers so very protective of “their” cousin. From a lass who’d turned stone-faced anytime a man came within a stone’s throw of her, his Saldís had grown. Pride filled him, bringing with it a rush of longing. 

“This is a private conversation,” Ragan snapped over a sudden loud chorus of wooden moans. 

_By Durin,_ Finnin thought, eyes upon the walls around them. Was the ship being torn in two? His lips compressed. If a dwarf had any doubts, this settled it: sea-travel was for those lacking in intelligence. How, he wondered with a fresh spurt of worry, fared Bifur in all this?

“Private? Not in these confines, it’s not,” Calenor assured loudly enough for all to hear. 

“What? What’s private?” came Dori’s voice from somewhere out of Finnin’s view.

“Apparently nothing,” was Medlinor’s droll sally.

Ragan spat a particularly colorful epithet in Khuzdul. “If you’d all let me _finish,”_ he roared above the storm’s din. “I was saying a daughter of men seemed a strange choice for a dwarf.” Then near shouting himself hoarse as Dori’s wordless outrage reached them along with an angry and garbled cry from Bofur, Ragan hollered, _“Until we left our Halls,_ ye nosy miscreants.” 

That silenced Ragan’s detractors. The hold echoed with groaning wood and the splashing of water as it raced down the hold’s stairs. Finnin didn’t need to look to know the water level in the hold had now reached his mid-calves. Not so reassuring, that.

Ragan’s next kick was less gentle, but it regained Finnin’s attention. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m understanding more now,” his friend said gruffly. “When we left home, a change took her.”

Finnin felt the press of many eyes. Like as not, the Rangers with their elvish-enhanced hearing were absorbing all that was said, and he could not help but resent it. What was between himself and his Saldís was private. It was no one’s business but theirs. And perhaps her sire and uncles. 

“Nay.” Finnin’s eyes closed at a tremendous lurch underfoot. Dwarvish complaints filled the hold. The Company clung to their posts as the ship canted to one side. “You but saw what she hid,” Finnin managed in a strangled voice as nausea swelled to new heights. 

Ragan grunted. “She’ll weather this.”

The Vengeance plummeted downward sickeningly. Ragan swallowed audibly and muttered, “Mahal preserve me.”

Gulping deep breaths to steady his belly, Finnin pressed his forehead into the wooden pole he clutched. In a voice just loud enough to reach his friend, he managed, “She was healing, Ragan.”

Ragan hummed in the back of his throat. “She’ll survive. She’s a Longbeard, through and through. Mark my words. No matter what those men do, she’ll not be shattered by it.

OoOoOo

Inky blackness. Disorientation. The sea’s unrelenting fingers tossed and rolled her until she lost all sense of direction. Tight bands of pressure constricted her chest, and the primal need for air threatened to send her into full-blown panic.

 _Give over,_ Akhora hissed with growing urgency. _I will save us._

Saldís growled at her wordlessly, resisting Akhora’s attempts to commandeer her body. She’d die Saldís before relenting, and as the sea churned and sloshed her about without pattern, that end seemed likely. Saldís’s desperation grew. Blast Kimilzor to ash, she could not stabilize her position. 

_Give me control,_ Akhora shouted, outrage underscoring the words. _Your weakling panic will—_

Saldís batted the useless words away, forcing herself to calm. To _think,_ by Durin. Then with her heart’s tempo thundering in her ears, she ceased all movement. If she could but detect the slight tug as her body floated in the correct direction…

_That won’t work!_ Akhora shrilled, frothing with rage. 

…but the effort proved worthless in seething waters. 

_I told you to—_

_Itkit!_ she screamed back (Shut up). By Durin, if by gagging her own mouth she could silence the bloody harpy in her mind, she’d do it. A low cry vibrated from the back of her throat as she thrashed about, wild for some clue as to which way to go. 

_You sniveling little—_

A punch of pain interrupted the insult as a big, hard object rammed into her shoulder. Her lips parted in a silent cry, and almost…almost…caused her to inhale. One hand groped blindly, latched onto the thing in self-preservation, but the sea still managed to slam her into the object again. Saldís folded around it, the residual air in her lungs rushing out in a stream of bubbles. 

Truly, she was cursed. Only that explained colliding with something in the middle of the sea! What in Durin’s name was it?

Cylindrical. Ponderous. Long. 

Wood? A log? Hope took root. Wood floated. 

_It won’t work,_ Akhora railed, trying to force Saldís to shove free of it and _Swim, curse you!_

By Mahal, did her other self believe she did not know this was a long shot? But what else could she do when she could not— _By the Eye,_ she fumed in return—even begin to determine which way was up? She glommed onto the wooden column, arms and legs wrapping around it for dear life. 

‘Twas like trying to keep her seat on the wildest, strongest emala to ever roam Caeldor’s deserts. The log jerked to one side before spinning off in the other. Changes in direction were lightning-quick and so powerful, it was all she could do not to slide off its length… 

…or be battered from it. An abrupt lurch smashed to log into her the side of her head. _Crack!_ Her grip slackened, her thoughts muddled, and the log slipped between her legs and arms.

She scrabbled for purchase, thighs clamping tight around the log’s smooth surface. A rough current blasted by, seeking to sheer her off. 

_Cursed,_ she concluded again. Growling, both frustrated and desperate, she wrapped herself around the log, heartbeat throbbing painfully within her skull just where the dratted thing had clobbered her.

The urge to inhale intensified while the log wheeled and twisted violently, tossed about by the sea’s chaotic currents. Saldís closed her eyes, her lungs shrieking with the instinctive need to _breathe, blast you, breathe._ Lightheadedness stole over her, amplifying the vertigo caused by the log’s churning. _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe!_

_**Don’t** breathe,_ Akhora snapped. 

Saldís squeezed her wooden anchor all the harder. The urge to inhale climbed. 

Then miraculously, it happened. The log burst to the surface. Strong winds ruffled her sodden backside, rippling across the back of her stolen tunic and down her sleeves in icy gusts. Rain slashed down upon her. 

Saldís half-wheezed, half-sobbed, dragging in air as fast as she could through an open mouth. Then she coughed explosively.

Time passed—Ages, surely—and her trial continued. Truly, the log became her savior. She’d never have lasted swimming on her own power so long. 

Her eyes burned from salt and fatigue, and her eyelids grew heavy, that in spite of Akhora’s continuous stream of insults and the constant choking. More than once, her eyes shut of their own accord, only to fly open when a new wave smacked into her. 

A cold sense of inevitability chipped away at her determination. She was going to perish out here. 

_I told you you would get us killed. Give over! I’m—_

The rest of Akhora’s rant was lost as Saldís shunted it away. 

She’d never see Adâd again. Her heart ached to know the pain this would cause him. By the accursed Valar, what had she done to him? Decades of his life lost, mourning for a missing daughter unworthy of his love. And now, more uncertainty. More pain. 

Sputtering weakly, wheezing for air, she idly considered that it would have been far better for Bifur had he never stumbled upon Fandes. _He doesn’t deserve this._

A sudden wave slammed into the bottom edge of her log, sending the opposite end shooting into the air. Saldís’s heavy eyelids flew upwards, and her trembling limbs contracted instinctively around the log. 

Down they splashed into the sea, only to surge back up with another wave. She gazed around blearily. She could not last much longer. 

It was then that she noticed something floated upon the waves with her. Her gaze sharpened, widened as she realized what she was seeing. _By all the orcs in Mordor._ Debris littered the water. Wood, for the most part. Planks. Barrels.

Bodies. Though the night was black as Kimilzor’s heart, she was able to make out enough of the corpses’ uniforms to know for certain that they were Gondorians. Mayhap from the Swan in Flight herself.

Akhora cheered gleefully, but Saldís clutched her log and trembled with a fatigue and numbness beyond words to describe. Staring at one body with bleak eyes, she wondered if perhaps this storm would never end. In her exhaustion, it seemed possible. 

A towering wave smashed down upon her log, submerging her once again. She rode it out with despair for company, holding her breath. Abruptly, she realized what it was she must be clinging to: a mast. The wood pressed to her cheek was smooth. Planed. What else could it be?

The mast bobbed to the surface, rolling with each undulation of the sea. Saldís’s grip slipped. A hoarse squawk escaped her as she slid down the mast’s length, fingernails scraping furrows in her wake. Saldís sputtered on torrential rain and panic alike as she desperately scratched and clawed for purchase. 

She stopped a scant foot from the mast’s end, nails torn and heart pounding. Though the mast rocked and swayed beneath her, she clung like a leech. _Durin’s beard._ That was too close.

She readjusted her hold gingerly, pressing in with throbbing fingers. 

Her brow furrowed as the pad of one index finger touched something on the mast’s underside. What was…?

Saldís’s belly knotted as her finger swept across the feature. This was no nick or scratch. Feverish chills pebbled her skin. The looping, regular shape of it left her without doubt. 

It was writing. 

A horrible suspicion lifted its head. A memory burst to life: Princess Dís painstakingly etching a rune of blessing—Lord Aulë’s sign—onto one of the Vengeance’s masts. Circling it was Captain Gaearon’s contribution, elvish script calling upon Lord Ulmo’s aid for smooth seas. At the time, Saldís had felt nothing but scorn at her fellows’ naivety. 

Logic argued that if dwarves and elves could succumb to such superstitiousness as to mark up their vessels, perhaps Gondorians, too. Yet in her heart, a fearful seed had been sown. 

Ignoring both storm and waves, Saldís’s fingers rushed to explore the mark. “P-please,” she managed. _Don’t You dare do this to me,_ she directed to Eru. Surely even He could not be so cruel. 

She swallowed and choked on seawater, stretching…stretching, her frustration climbing. _Curse it all to the deepest pit,_ she snarled to herself. 

Nothing. One fist slammed into the mast’s side. ‘Twas no use. To reach farther, to gain the knowledge she needed, she would have to risk her seat. She had to scale the mast’s length. 

_No. I won’t permit it,_ Akhora hissed, instantly locking key muscles into place to prevent Saldís from moving. _I have no intention of perishing just to assuage your petty fears._

Saldís gritted her teeth, fighting against Akhora’s resistance. She couldn’t be shocked, not given the events of the night and the deepening rift between the sides of herself. _Mad, mad, mad,_ rang through the recesses of her mind. Aye, she was, but she was at a loss what to do about it besides continue to fight. 

_You don’t get to make this decision,_ Saldís growled.

What should have been difficult but possible with care turned into another battlefront. Every slide and contraction of a muscle was fought over, making her progress painfully slow, but progress she did with Akhora’s curses reverberating through her mind. Undergirding it all, almost buried beneath the incessant claps of thunder, frantic breaths escaped her in tiny, uncontrollable jerks.

She had to know.

Millimeter by painstaking millimeter, Saldís scooted along the mast’s surface. Twice, a miscalculation caused her to slip, but each time, she recovered, clenched her teeth, and started anew. All the while, waves roiled, tossing her makeshift raft. Sudden, violent gusts of wind buffeted her from one direction, then the other, threatening to topple her. 

The mast was slick. Treacherous. So long as her thighs were clamped around it tight enough to ache, she was mostly secure, but the instant she loosened that hold to move upwards along the wooden length, it felt as if the entire pole would shoot out from between her legs like a projectile. 

_Breeder,_ Akhora spat. _Pathetic fool! Listen to your thoughts. Hoping,_ Akhora scorned. _Hope is a lie._

Hatred sparked like lightning strikes between the two sides of herself. Saldís shook, her grasp upon the mast tightening as the sea mowed her over. The mast rolled. Saldís was underwater, then on the surface—gulping down air as fast as she could—and back under again. Through it all, she refused to surrender. She had to make sure Adâd was well. 

She had to prove the marking was not what she feared.

When the roll ended, she was submerged. _Urkhas kûd,_ she spat.

Saldís carefully shifted her weight until her head poked above water, her cheek to the mast’s side. She gulped in oxygen, sputtering when seawater accompanied it. A precarious position, this, but she persisted, attention returning to that etching. The fingers of her left hand splayed across the wood. 

Every muscle in her body went rigid. Bold, angular slashes dominated the central rune, all of which was circled by looping script. The breath wheezed from her lungs. Her hand patted over the marks with growing denial.

She must be mistaken. She had to be. 

But she wasn’t. The fingernails of her questing hand dug into the grooves. This mast could be from no other ship than the Black Vengeance. Fatigue vanished beneath a ball of fear that grew like a snowball rolling downhill, accumulating bulk with every rotation.

The bodies she’d seen… Had Rangers and dwarves been mixed among the Gondorians and she’d not noticed? Horrified, she searched the foaming sea. “Adâd?” she croaked. Her heart bonged like a hollow drum within her ears. A tremor vibrated through her body, intensifying with each wheezed breath. 

Images of tragedy flashed before her mind. Numbness spread outward from her core. 

_A mast does not mean the ship sank,_ she tried to assure herself. The Vengeance might easily have lost it in the storm. This was no proof that she sank. 

But the debris littering the water, the few bodies of men still within sight… 

Saldís’s eyes squeezed shut. Akhora’s silkily bitter voice returned. _They’re dead. Did you forget the truth of things? Life is pain. Life is loss._ Then crooning, _Poor dear. Nothing left to fight for._ Then harder, _For **you.** Your time is done. Now, it is mine. Yield._

Saldís gulped for breath, eyes unseeing on the frothing black clouds above. _Not Adâd,_ she begged Eru, ready to discard all pride if only He would listen. She would grovel, debase herself. _You cannot take Adâd._ It couldn’t be true. The Vengeance had to survive. 

_You know better. Eru takes everything,_ Akhora said.

Saldís moaned. Hate that other side of herself or not, in this, Akhora spoke only truth. They both knew it. Life had taught them well. Life stole. It stabbed and clawed and raped. 

Faces flashed through Saldís’s mind, plunging grief’s dagger deeper though her heart. 

Her family. Her reasons to live. Adâd and Bofur, Nori and Dori. Finnin. The Brothers. Dead? 

A film of tears mixed with stinging raindrops, further distorting her vision. Desolation tore her guts to shreds, and with it, a world of guilt. She hadn’t had a chance to apologize to Adâd. She needed him. She loved him. Had she voiced that often enough? 

Had she told Uncle Bofur how much his silliness brought joy to her dark soul? Or Nori that she relied upon that silent knowing that at times filled his eyes? The ex-thief often recognized better what she did not say than anyone else. Dori— 

Dori would rejoice to be with Ori again, but she wanted him _here._ ‘Twas selfish—aye, it was—but Saldís hadn’t wrapped her arms around him nearly often enough. To never again be fussed over by the stodgy dwarf? To never have him press another cup of chamomile into her hands?

Then a sharper, unexpected pain. Finnin. Partner and friend. Of late, his presence had at turns confused and disquieted her. The brush of his skin against hers had become…strange. There were times the look in his blue eyes caused a fluttering in her chest and an odd rushing sensation through her body. She found her fingers itching to reach out to him. For what reason, she hadn’t discerned.

Now, she’d never know. 

Gone. 

The word reverberated through her mind with finality. Just like her life with Bifur the first time, this second chance was ripped away. _You don’t know that,_ a part of her argued desperately, but it was pulverized underfoot by a lifetime of bitterness. A deadly anger kindled. 

With it, a burst of exultation from Akhora as she shoved her way to the helm, certain of her victory. Saldís did nothing to halt her. This, Saldís fulminated, ended it. If her life was some game to Eru and his wretched Valar, this time they’d gone too far. They had permitted atrocity after atrocity, and as her skin prickled with the heat of outrage, she declared herself done tolerating it. 

If Eru enjoyed His games, offering her goodness before ripping it away time and again, Saldís had a new one for Him. She would extract her vengeance in the only way left to her. She would unleash Akhora upon His world. 

Akhora’s hatred spewed forth like a volcano, and her face twisted with fey malice. _I win,_ she hissed. _But don’t you fret, Saldís-who-will-no-longer-be. I will see Kimilzor dead. Valkthor, too._ If Eru had possessed any concern for His creations—or a modicum of intelligence, Akhora snorted in scorn—He never would have provided Akhora a sure path to victory over her weaker self. 

One day, she’d be sure to thank Him…as she spat in His face.

Saldís curled in upon herself, willing herself away. ‘Twas what Akhora wished, and burdened by a grief she could not bear, worn down by days of battling, Saldís had not the heart to resist. A world without Adâd with his constant and stubborn love—without Bofur and his “It could be worse, lass” outlook on life—was not a world of any interest to her. She allowed herself to fade.

Akhora clung to the mast and planned. _Pelargir,_ she decided while a nasty series of waves tossed the mast about like a twig. She fought for each breath, chest aching from the constant choking and her body shaking like a leaf. She sneered, despising such weakness in herself.

Yes, Pelargir was the answer. Swarming with Corsairs, she knew there would be Black Númenóreans present, too. Perhaps even her dear brother.

A wave hit without warning. Water filled her lungs.

Akhora exploded into violent coughs, slipping from the mast. _No!_ Akhora lunged for it, arms like rubbery bands. She continued hacking, unable to catch her breath as she wheezed unsuccessfully.

By the Eye. _Now_ she drowned? Spitting curses within her mind, she threw one leg over the mast’s length. With the sea raging all around her, she managed to clamber aboard, still unable to take a successful breath. She was drowning. She! Worse, that Saldís-taint was passively permitting it!

_Sauron’s crispy bits,_ she snarled. With no other options, she twisted and dropped her belly onto the pole, forcing her lungs to expel fluid. She retched, coughing up water without control. 

It was then, fighting to breathe, that an object tickled the corner of her eye. Her attention homed in upon it instinctively. 

_Adâd’s Saldís._ The words shattered her victory. Instantly, she was Saldís again. Only Saldís. Akhora fumed and screeched in the back of her mind, but Saldís would not be budged, transfixed by the pendant that the storm must have freed from where she’d tucked it into her tunic. 

Bjartur’s pendant. What…what was she doing? 

_What we must,_ Akhora shouted. _Will you not DIE?_

Through tempestuous winds that blew rain and water horizontally with biting intensity, Saldís managed to change her perch, to straddle the mast. Both legs clamped around it, and one arm, but one violently trembling hand reached out and grasped hold of the angular pendant. 

A memory returned. She felt the blood drain from her face as Bjartur once again stared up at her with earnest eyes. “No. You _will_ come back. Promise me.” 

The memory faded as _Adâd’s Saldís_ once again knelled. With it, her grief at last found full voice. Cries escaped her lips, wordless and anguished. How could she have so quickly forsaken all Adâd had stood for? 

_I have just cause,_ Saldís howled from her heart of hearts. She could not keep enduring this, losing everyone that mattered.

_Then let me!_ Akhora snarled. _Go. Away!_

A hard wave crashed into her, almost wrestling Saldís from her mast. Her arm—hand still clenching Bjartur’s pendant—joined its counterpart in hugging the mast, but hampered as it was by her refusal to let loose the stone, its usefulness was vastly diminished.

_Drop it,_ Akhora screeched. 

Her hand tightened about it instead.

No matter how much she wished to be erased so the pain of loss could no longer reach her, Saldís had sworn to remain Adâd’s daughter. She hadn’t imagined the cost would be so high. To have to continue on without her family? To force air into her lungs and place one foot before the other when death seemed preferable?

_What would Adâd want,_ a small voice asked.

Mahal, he’d wish her to press onward. He’d want her to survive, to return to Uncle Bombur when her task was done. No matter how much this hurt, she would try to do that. She’d try to be the kind of person Adâd would be proud to call daughter.

_How very sentimental,_ her Akhora-self spat. _You haven’t the strength to cage me. Or the will._

Saldís’s eyes slitted as her purpose realigned. She’d been strong enough to endure Gart’s assault passively—a type of self-sacrifice Akhora could not understand. She would not allow Akhora to dishonor Bifur’s memory. By her tainted soul, she wouldn’t.

Bifur had once said that love made one stronger. Upon her dead sire’s spear, she would prove it true. 

Akhora struck, calling forth every black memory of abuse upon her person. The cold, calculating persona who had survived a lifetime in Caeldor would not be defeated, not with victory so close at hand. Saldís was weak. Her conviction would falter if only Akhora pressed harder.

_Nay,_ Saldís said, a strange calmness stealing over her. _I am the stronger._ Then to herself, _Iridzu du-khuzd._ Aye, she was of the Khazâd. Akhora would not defeat her.

As Akhora tried to wrest her from ascendancy—even as the sea attempted to rip her from the mast—Saldís dug in with all her might. With Adâd’s face kept in her mind’s eye, memory of the way his eyes had reflected his love, Saldís did not doubt who would win. _She_ would live on in Adâd’s name while the scourge of men, the monster who once was, faded from existence. 

Her Akhora-self immediately countered her, hissing all the reasons she had to wreak retribution upon an uncaring world. _Eru’s_ world. It reminded her of every hurt, every indignity foisted upon her. The abduction by Kimilzor. The years of cruelty under the Hands and Six Lords. Gart. Bifur’s death.

For the first time, bitterness and anger could not gain a foothold. Saldís stood unmoved in the face of it all. _I will make Bifur proud._ Love filled her, the love of a daughter for her father. It left no room for Akhora or her darker emotions.

A fierce exultation welled up from within, bringing with it a tiny smile. Thunder crackled across the sky, and the sea continued to pound her, but it could not quench her spirit now. Aye, she was Adâd’s Saldís. She felt cleaner. Free. _I choose. Not you._

There was no response. 

Saldís’s cracked lips spread into a wider smile. Then she sagged upon the mast, a mamukil’s weight of exhaustion again squashing her flat. She’d cling to life with all she had, but if this storm claimed her, she’d have no regrets.

_Adâd’s Saldís._


	29. Dreaming Interlude...Or Was It?

The sun rose. 

Bifur’s body trembled as he collapsed to his knees. All around, debris littered the Vengeance’s deck, and from the drawn features of the elves’ faces, victory o’er the storm had been hard won. Captain Gaearon’s brow sported deep lines of stress as he paced the length of the ship, eyes upon the damage the Vengeance had sustained. 

_‘Tis no good news we’ll be hearing,_ Bifur thought. The Black Vengeance had been pummeled more’n a braggart in a bar fight. ‘Twas a wonder she remained afloat. Truly, their survival was a testament to elvish prowess and naught else. 

Through beams of sunlight worming between gaps in the clouds overhead, Bifur could see the sea returning to a clear, lazily undulating blue, calm as if the violence of the night had never been. He snorted tiredly. He’d never thought to be grateful for that sight. 

One of the elves shouted something in his native tongue—Bifur gleaned nothing from it—but when the elf directed his fellows’ gazes to the south with a pointed finger, Bifur read the meaning easily enough. Following the elf’s indication, Bifur’s head craned about.

Elation caused him to sink back upon his heels. _She made it._ His lassie was safe. He almost wept, pawing at his face with a world of exhaustion. The Swan in Flight sailed on, her familiar outline and banner plain on the horizon.

He’d lost sight of his Saldís’s ship early on, and search the tossing waves though he did, he’d not located it. He’d been terrified the night through, he had, that the ship would sink and he’d not know it.

Finnin climbed from the hold, his face haggard and clothes a right mess. Like himself, Bifur knew the other Khazâd must have been horribly ill. 

“The Swan in Flight survived,” Bifur told him simply.

Finnin’s head bowed as the warrior took a deep breath. Then head lifting, Finnin stepped over debris to Bifur’s side. “Let’s get you out of this.”

Bifur managed a pale grin. “After that, I’m thinking ye might wish to bathe.”

“Are you implying I reek?” Finnin asked as his dagger set to work on the tangled up ropes pinning Bifur in place. Though the warrior’s smile flashed, it was wan to Bifur’s eye. 

The instant Bifur was free, he grabbed the warrior in a tight hug. “She’s well,” he rumbled in the younger dwarf’s ear. With a wrenching exhale, Finnin returned his embrace. “It’s over. She’s well.”

OoOoOo

Saldís knew she was dreaming. She must be, for her last memories were of strife and a world of grief. Now, peace blanketed her. Peace such as she only vaguely recollected from distant, childhood memory.

Awareness of her surroundings came slowly as she basked in the overwhelming sensation of contentment. Her body was languid and free of pain. In that moment, she thought that perhaps she never wished to wake. This, she decided, surpassed even elvish tales of the Undying Lands. 

_Am I dead?_ The thought did not disturb her as it should have. Nay, if this was death, she was happy to have found it. 

More penetrated her haze of serenity. She was abed without clothes. An oddity, aye, yet instead of generating unease, she savored its rightness. 

A vaguely hollow sound, one akin to a bellows, alone broke the stillness. _Breathing,_ she decided after a long stretch in which she was content to merely listen to it. A deep sound, it somehow imbued her with a sense of security.

Time passed before she realized it accompanied the steady rise and fall of the hairy pillow beneath her head. The breaths, she suddenly realized, belonged to an equally nude body pressed to hers.

Her dream-self’s eyes flew open, yet alarm refused to come. _Safe._ She knew in her bones that there was no threat here. 

Blond curls tickled her nose. Her right hand lay supine upon a broad, muscular chest. Strong arms looped loosely around her waist, crisscrossing her back so that big hands bracketed her ribs. 

Her dream-self ran a finger down the chest from collar to where a crescent-shaped scar interrupted the solid mat of blond curls. _That’s from no flesh wound,_ she mused, rubbing the spot. The male was fortunate to have survived it.

A part of her tried to recoil, the memory of Gart fresh. But the chest beneath her head was warm and broad, not clammy and thin. A wealth of hair covered it, not the piddling mat Gart had possessed. Nay, the strength she detected beneath her fingers brought her comfort. Its strength sheltered. She knew that this male would never seek her harm.

Quite the opposite.

Her gaze drifted higher. A familiar blond beard spilled across the male’s chest. Though she’d only ever seen it free and unfettered, still she knew it. In the dream, braids adorned it, many braids. Her chest tightened. How she wished this for him. 

_Finnin,_ she named without doubt. A thread of confusion wormed its way into the fabric of the dream’s peace. Why was she curled up to him?

Wait… Her core chilled. He was dead. 

Her dreaming self’s hand caressed the chest beneath her head, assuring itself of his life. The act held a wealth of familiarity about it, as if it was a long established habit, yet it was exhilarating in its newness for all that. Dream-Finnin’s torso rumbled under her ear with a low laugh.

Lips pressed to the tip of her widow’s peak. “We’re not needing to be awake just yet, Dushin-Mizim. Sleep. The day will be full sooner than you’ll like.”

Her head lifted. Blue eyes above a lazy smile stared back at her.

Her heart gave a painful spasm. So full of life, he was. By her soul, she wanted this to be real. To be able to touch him and feel his heart beating. “You’re dead,” she whispered.

Blond brows shot upwards. “Dead?” A lopsided smile. “You’ve been dreaming.” Warm lips claimed hers without hesitation, slow and languid. A part of her tried to freeze, but her dream-self would have none of it. There was no threat here. She did not fear his attentions. 

Warmth pooled in her belly, and her skin prickled with strange and pleasant zings. She found herself pressing closer, curiously exploring these new feelings. 

When it ended, she almost demanded his lips back. Instead, she bestowed an intense stare upon him as his hand lifted to cup her head. His thumb fingered a weight upon her right temple. 

Saldís’s eyes widened, her heart giving one shocked beat. He wore a marriage braid. Without needing to see, she intuitively knew that slight weight at her own right temple matched it. 

She’d never been so stunned in her life. 

They were _married?_

OoOoOo

Saldís jerked to full wakefulness, heart racing. Weak sunlight splashed across her face, but in her flabbergasted state, she barely registered it. “What,” she squeaked on a high, rasping note, “was that?”

Her body flushed hot, then cold. So vivid. So _real._ Saldís could still remember the slightly wiry feel of Finnin’s chest hairs between her fingers, and the musky smell of his skin. Her ears had memorized the sound of his soft breaths…and by Durin, her lips remembered the taste of him. 

_A vision._ A second hot flush rushed through her body. 

Finnin lived. A rush of emotions fired at the thought: elation, joy and what she could only label as possessiveness. (She blinked. Possessiveness?)

_He lives._ The thought drove deep, lodging in her gut. He had to for such a vision to be possible. And if Finnin lived, perhaps Bifur, too. Bofur, Dori, and Nori. 

Then the logical voice of cynicism dashed her hope. _It wasn’t a vision,_ it scoffed. Her? Married? A more ludicrous thing, she couldn’t imagine. Saldís certainly wasn’t capable of what that…that…delusion had depicted. 

_Liar,_ a small part of her whispered. The warm and tender scene returned, and chills pebbled her flesh. 

A pang of longing struck her, and confusion. (Were these emotions normal?) Saldís tried to dislodge the entire nonsense from her head, but then this rogue _thing_ within her welled up and staged a coup, cradling the intimate memory protectively. 

She blinked, utterly and entirely dumbfounded. Her lips parted, mouthed unformed syllables. Snapped shut. Then again. And again. _Four_ Sauron-be-cursed _times._ For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what to say to herself. What to think.

Then frustration rose. She was stranded in the middle of Ulmo’s accursed sea. What difference did it make now whether it had been a dream or vision? 

Her hand groped for and closed around Bjartur’s pendant. It mattered a great deal. If the dream had been vision, the possibility of that end remained. She hadn’t lost her family or Finnin. Again, the warmth of Finnin’s lips on hers returned, causing a melting in her belly.

_By Durin._ Never— _never_ —had she felt more in need of Bifur’s counsel. Or mayhap Healer Goira’s attention, for surely that storm must have addled her wits. 

Grief struck without warning, sharp enough to steal the air from her lungs. Adâd. Bofur. Mahal, it was too much. 

_They live,_ that rogue part of her insisted, but Saldís feared to trust it. Better to be happily surprised than to hope and discover hope had once again deceived her. She couldn’t weather that type of loss again. Nay, better she face the truth: they were dead.

She lifted a hand to wipe tears from her cheeks, discovering in the process that her forehead and hair were plastered with slimy, foul-smelling seaweed. She fingered the stuff off her head and flicked it into the sea.

By Berúthiel and her accursed cats, not one part of her body did not hurt. She’d never been so tired. Her head plopped back down on the mast’s slick surface as waves softly undulated beneath her. A part of her instinctively imagined that instead of wood, it was Finnin’s chest beneath her. The fancy offered more comfort that it should have.

She growled low in her throat. If this kept up, she’d be reduced to a lovesick ninny before the day was out. All over a dream. _Do you hear that? A dream,_ she growled at herself. _He’s dead. Accept it. Grraaargh!_

Exhaustion robbed her miff of any stamina. Her ire drained away, leaving her boneless. She breathed softly, the sea rocking her like a babe.

Against all odds, she had survived with both life and soul intact. How, she distantly wondered, did that keep happening? The Valar and Eru could not care for her, yet it seemed circumstances forever saw her spared. These near misses surpassed the bounds of credulity. Her gaze descended to the rune-shaped scar on the back of her hand, and a prickle raced up her spine. 

With a low groan, she prodded her stiff and aching body upright, legs straddling the Vengeance’s mast. At some point, the thing must have rotated, for the Khuzdul and elvish scrip revealed to be beneath where her belly had rested. She fingered it, again absorbing the dagger of loss. 

Squinting as the sun’s light danced blindingly upon the waters, she took a deep breath. She let grief go and braced herself for more bad news. Slowly exhaling, she assessed her situation. 

From one horizon to the other, the sea lapped calmly, unbroken by any land. There were no ships in sight. 

Saldís swallowed with difficulty. By her soul, she’d don a frilly dress and dance upon a table for a sip of pure, cold water. She laughed, the sound harsh and grating her throat. Dying of thirst amid a sea of water. Surely Uncle Bofur would have a word or two to say about that. 

_Alright then._ She had the mast, two swords, the…dagger? Saldís twisted. No dagger. Its sheath hung empty at her hip. She had no food and no drinkable water.

A part of her bitterly wondered why everything in life must be such a trial. By Durin, she was weary. But sitting here waiting for death to come was not going to happen, not while a scrap of coherence remained to her. She’d rest when she was dead and not a second sooner. There was a mission to be completed.

For Uncle Bombur, Lord Dwalin and all the dwarves under his care, she’d head for Tovennen. For their sakes, she must try her best to undermine their enemy. 

So. She’d reach land or die trying. The Gondorians had set course for Dol Amroth, so the southern coast of Anfalas had to be to her north. Heading due east would be preferable, but if her best guess was accurate, she was too far from Harondor’s coast to attempt such a course. No, better to head to the nearest body of land, even if the land in question belonged to Gart’s people. 

_North._ And hope to avoid any more Swan Knights.

After a careful study of the sky to get her bearings, she began to paddle with her hands.


	30. Dol Amroth and Prince Imrahil

_**Dol Amroth  
8 February TA 3019** _

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth considered murder.

As Captain Henedor’s frantic words tripped over themselves in his haste to inform Imrahil of the full scope of his folly, Imrahil leaned upon the pale wooden table before him, its surface littered with maps and reports. At his right shoulder stood his son and heir, Elphir, and beyond him his wife’s second cousin, Inaron. Though Imrahil didn’t spare them any attention as the barrage of words continued, he was confident they, too, recognized the political disaster Henedor delivered to them this day.

A possible enemy, escaped. Likely dead. Under normal circumstances, he would have dismissed the loss as regrettable due to lost information. But this?

The woman, enemy or not, had powerful protectors. Dwarves. Elves. Even his own distant kinsmen, the Dunedain. With Corsairs harassing his shores and Mordor ready to march at any moment, Imrahil did not need more challenges. 

“Let me see if I understand aright,” Imrahil cut in, interrupting the captain’s litany of excuses. “You placed a man in charge of securing our prisoner, one you knew had good reason to hate her? With no oversight?”

Henedor stood taller, but the flush coloring his cheeks betrayed him. The man recognized his stupidity. Now, when it was too late. “I deemed him least likely to permit her opportunity to escape,” Henedor said, chin lifting. 

“Which also transpired,” bronze-haired Inaron murmured, one hand to his smooth chin. His hazel eyes watched the captain, unblinking. 

“Something is wrong here,” Henedor burst in a low voice, his focus splitting between Imrahil and Inaron. “That ship looks derelict, yet beneath the artifice, it’s as fine a vessel as I’ve ever seen. What business would dwarves and elves have in our waters? And why the charade?” 

Imrahil’s hands slid from the table as he straightened. The war strategies before him suddenly fell lower on his list of priorities. This was one fire he could not let burn. He could ill afford to turn allies into enemies. One could hope Lord Círdan’s elves would be angry for the woman’s loss, but civil. The Dunedain, as well. But dwarves? Their tempers were legendary.

Still, Henedor’s point bore consideration. Why would elves alter a ship in such a way? What was their objective? Imrahil’s gaze cut to the shorter, bronze-haired man to his right. “Lieutenant.”

“Prince?” Alert eyes snapped his way, and Inaron stood at attention.

“Bring that ship’s complement to me. Elves, dwarves, all of them. Escort them to the throne room. Be respectful but keep them under guard.”

“Disarmed?” Inaron asked.

“Only when you reach the doors to the throne room. It’s a common enough protocol that our guests shouldn’t take insult from it.”

With a short bow, Inaron exited the study, his boots a soft cadence upon the wooden floor.

“Henedor?” Imrahil’s attention turned to the captain.

“My prince?” Sweat beaded the man’s forehead. 

“Get out of my presence,” Imrahil said evenly. “I will deal with you after I’ve ascertained the full extent of the damage you’ve done.” 

The man fled, his footsteps without pattern in his haste.

“Father?” At Elphir’s voice, Imrahil turned to his adult son. Such a source of pride, this eldest son of his, along with each of Elphir’s siblings. “Shall I prepare suitable quarters for our guests?”

A good thought. Imrahil nodded. “Lodge the men between the dwarves and elves.” A wry look passed between them. The feud between the two races was as enduring as the sea. “Ask Lothiriel to assist. Tell her to see that plenty of meat is available for the dwarves.” 

_Let us hope a full belly with assuage some of the fury that will soon be directed our way._

Elphir’s steady, purposeful strides sounded as true as a heartbeat as he left. Imrahil once again leaned against the table, eyes blind upon the parchments there. 

Henedor’s voiced concerns about the elvish ship and her crew worried Imrahil. If Henedor proclaimed that ship altered to deceive, Imrahil believed him. Henedor was lacking in many ways—his interpersonal skills chief among them—but the man’s tactical genius was only surpassed by his knowledge of ships.

_Lord Ulmo, Sea-King, what else is stirring around us?_ Imrahil rapped his knuckles a handful of times against the table. Then with a tired sigh, he armed himself with a short blade and donned gloves and cloak. Swift strides carried him out of the palace to the walls overlooking the docks below. 

The sky was crystalline blue, the clouds puffy white. One would hardly believe the tempest that had raged mere days before but for the evidence within Dol Amroth’s streets. Repair crews could be seen hard at work replacing damaged roofs and carting off fallen trees within the city. 

Imrahil inhaled, savoring the early morning air. Like all his line, he loved the sea. He could not remember a time but that his eyes thirsted for its glittering beauty and his lungs hungered for its taste. 

His head dipped, bringing the docks below into view. His first sight of the unknown ship confirmed Henedor’s words. 

_Disguised, indeed._ The muscles along the base of his neck tightened. That ship would look at home among the Corsair fleet. Why would elves alter their ship so?

Only two answers came to mind: to spy upon their enemy or to join them. 

Lord Ulmo grant it was the former. If elves now allied with Imrahil’s enemies, Gondor’s plight had just worsened considerably.

OoOoOo

Dís walked at the head of the Black Company, Barhador’s long-legged frame keeping slow pace at her right. To either side of them, armed lines of Swan Knights accompanied the Company in full regalia. Whether proof of the men’s continued doubts pertaining to her team or a show of honor, she had not yet decided.

 _Perhaps a mix of both._ That her people had not been stripped of their weapons suggested the prince of these lands intended to tread carefully until certain of her party’s intentions.

That show of prudence would have done much to alleviate her many fears if not for the so very _careful_ way Lieutenant Inaron had addressed her. Aye, such reserve could stem from her rank—or even Captain Gaearon’s presence—but Dís could not quite quell the foreboding building in her mind. 

There could be another reason for the man’s caution. One having everything to do with her missing Longbeard.

Dís tapped the hilt of the dagger strapped to her waist. The voyage to Dol Amroth had been difficult at best. One of the men’s ships had sunk beneath the waves during the violent storm of days before—she could not help but be relieved it had not been the Swan in Flight—and the others vessels, the Vengeance included, had sustained significant damage. A journey that should have taken two days had been doubled as the three surviving ships limped to port. 

As the entourage navigated through the city’s streets, the skill and artistry of the men became evident. Though not a dwarf’s match (Dís wouldn’t go that far), this city of men surpassed even Dale in her splendor. Her whitewashed walls were far from plain with subtle artwork etched into each surface. Her gray-bricked streets were arranged in sea patterns, and her buildings sloped and dipped in organic shapes reminiscent of the Grey Havens. A gentle breeze set the pennants affixed atop the tallest buildings to fluttering, proudly displaying the ruling house’s emblem of a swan in the beginning stages of flight. 

Dís’s scrutiny returned to Lieutenant Inaron, and her thoughts to the missing member of her team. _Mahal._ Had she failed her people in permitting Saldís to be removed from their ship? Dís’s lips flattened, and her formidable Durin temper rumbled to life. Surely Prince Imrahil would not have judged the girl without Dís present? 

_Let her be safe,_ she entreated of Mahal. 

Inaron led them up countless flights of stairs that climbed from the docks higher into the city upon the hills above. The rhythmic tread from the soldiers’ boots was a constant percussion that grated upon her nerves. With each sharp and uniform thump, Dís’s dread grew. 

By Aulë, let her fears be unfounded.

OoOoOo

Nori hung back at the rear of the Company, his pale eyes sweeping through the grand throne room, marking who was there…and who wasn’t. _No Saldís._ That worried him. His gaze cut to Bifur and found his _umral_ cold o’ face.

But his eyes… Aye, in Bifur’s brown eyes, Nori could see his friend’s panic. Reaching over, he placed a hand upon Bifur’s shoulder, silently conveying his own worry. 

Bifur swallowed thickly. 

Nori once again faced forward, inspecting the middle-aged man standing upon the dais before them. A simple circlet of silver adorned his brow. His graying black hair was contained in a single braid that landed between his shoulders, and his beard was worn short as was the custom of men. 

Prince Imrahil was distant kin to the Dunedain, that Barhador had informed all of them during the miserably slow voyage to this city of men. Standing in Prince Imrahil’s presence, Nori could see signs of that august lineage. Though faded when compared to the Dunedain, there was something _more_ about these men. More nobility. More vitality. 

Prince Imrahil’s sea-gray eyes touched Nori’s for a brief moment. _He’s no fool,_ Nori concluded. The prince’s people had treated the Company with respect yet still ensured Nori’s group was unarmed as they filed into the throne room. _Tactful and careful._ Fingers tapping against his side, Nori took in the man’s somber expression as his attention drifted to the Rangers…

…and so Nori did not fail to miss the slight hitch to the man’s inspection when it reached their Dunedain. _Sure as a dwarf loves his ale, he’s noticed the earrings._ Nori bit back harsh words of frustration as the man’s eyes hooded and slid to his adult son’s. 

Aye, things just got a mite trickier.

OoOoOo

Cold swan’s wings brushed down Imrahil’s spine upon witnessing the ruby earrings in each of the “Rangers’” ears. The men had the bearing and aristocratic faces common to those descended from the line of kings, but that was neither proof of their identities nor confirmation of their intentions.

Those earrings planted heavy seeds of doubt in his heart. Imrahil recognized them. His advisers and commanders, too, based upon the hardening of their expressions. They had long held that such earrings were a symbol of rank among the Corsairs. 

Not captains. Nothing so common. What their function might be, his people had yet to determine, but they’d learned one fact well. If a Corsair so marked was present, more of Imrahil’s people died. They were lethal, an elite fighting force. 

And here he had eleven of them.

_At least none wears the onyx._ An even rarer symbol, and one Imrahil had issued a specific command regarding. If a man or woman wore that symbol, Imrahil's people were to kill them instantly. There were to be no attempts at capture, no questioning or negotiating. Those wearing the onyx were beyond simply depraved. They were outright evil. 

_What do the earrings mean?_ Perhaps this was the day he’d finally get concrete answers. 

His gaze turned next to the nine elves quietly standing among the rest of their companions. Near dwarves, even, a fact that he added to his list of peculiarities about these people. More importantly, Captain Gaearon was one of Lord Círdan’s elves, a claim backed up by the signet ring the elf wore. 

It had been centuries since any of Imrahil’s predecessors had set eyes upon that symbol, or upon any of Círdan’s elves. What brought them here? 

In search of clues, he next turned to the dwarves. What business had they with elves? Why claim the lost woman? Why defend her? Dwarves kept to their mountain halls, having little to do with the outside world. Yet here they stood. 

The collective disparities here perplexed him, and Imrahil had little patience for perplexities in these dark times. Anything out of the ordinary, he viewed with suspicion. With Mordor active, how could he not? There were too many lives riding upon his shoulders for him to do otherwise. 

A commotion interrupted the introductions just as Inaron began naming the dwarves. Imrahil was taken aback to discover a Princess Dís among them. The last direct descendant of Durin, he now knew thanks to Inaron’s introduction. Could this mess grow any worse? 

Imrahil’s gaze tore from the princess to locate the commotion’s source. A dwarf pushed his way to the head of the group, a floppy, misshapen hat upon his head and shabby clothes upon his body. Right on his heels followed a second dwarf. The second, Imrahil noted in escalating disbelief, had an ax lodged in his skull. 

If he’d had an Age to try, Imrahil knew he’d still fail to imagine a day such as this.

OoOoOo

Bofur pushed his way to the forefront.

Bifur had fretted long enough—well aye, they all had—and he was done waiting as polite political words and titles were exchanged. Saldís was not in the room. The cousins as well as the Ris and Finnin and Finnur had each scanned the large hall intently in the hopes they were wrong, but the truth won out. For whatever reason, the men kept Saldís from them, and that was going to end. 

Now.

Lady Dís said naught to deter Bofur, only shot him a warning look as he reached her side. 

_Eh, permission enough._

Bofur directed his fool’s smile to the prince of men, measuring the man. Of middling years, he was, but still strong and fit if the short sword strapped to his side was aught to go by. He seemed an intelligent enough sort. 

At Bifur’s demanding nudge, Bofur bowed with dramatic flourish, hat coming off his head as he mimicked the most courtly of bows he’d seen demonstrated by some o’ Dale’s prissier nobles a time or two. “Bofur, son o’ Banfur at your service,” he said. Then rising and plunking his hat back in place, he lifted eyebrows, and with a falsely cheerful grin, asked, “Now as we’ve been introduced all proper-like, I have but one question for you, princeling. Where’s my niece?”

OoOoOo

Dís could have groaned at Bofur’s utter lack of tact.

To his credit, Prince Imrahil did not react with insult. “We both have questions, Master Dwarf,” the man said after a pregnant pause. His attention slid to Dís’s left. “I could ask what business Rangers have wearing the device of our enemy.”

Dís slapped a hand across Bofur’s parting lips, glaring. The cheeky dwarf dared grin beneath her hand. Then with a wink, he kissed her palm. 

Dís snorted, releasing her hold and swatting him on the chest. _We may well need that cheekiness before this meeting ends,_ a part of her offered grimly. Tensions burbled just below the surface, a pot ready to boil at the least provocation.

The subject of Saldís was raised. The men’s reasons for suspicion, too. Now, they must be discussed. ‘Twas time for candid talk. 

After a brief glance her way, Barhador stepped forward. “Prince Imrahil,” he greeted, inclining his head in respect. “Though separated by distance and many generations, the Dunedain hold nothing but respect for your line and your people. We have reason for our ruse, both with the earrings and the ship that has caused your men consternation.”

“And what might that be?” Imrahil’s black-haired heir, Elphir, asked in a cool voice. 

With hands spread, Barhador implored, “On my honor, I swear we mean nothing but good towards your people.” Then in a lower voice, “But our mission is to undermine Mordor. We cannot speak of it openly. Please. Allow us to present our case in a less…open…forum.”

Dís stepped forward, joining Barhador. “He speaks truth.” With a wave of her hand, she indicated the Black Company and Círdan’s elves. “Tell me, can you think of any other cause that would unite my people with elves?”

By the wry twitch of the lips, her comment had scored points with Imrahil. An abrupt nod, and he said briskly, “Very well. We do things your way. Captain Gaearon, Princess Dís, Ranger Barhador, you three will come with me.”

Dís turned and placed a hand on Bifur’s chest as the prince chose men to accompany them. Durin blue eyes met brown. In Khuzdul, she whispered, “I’ll find out, my friend. You have my word.”

Bifur’s nod was short. Jerky. Dís read the fear in his eyes.

Her head turned, bringing Bofur into focus. “I expect you to keep things calm,” she instructed. A glint appeared in the toymaker’s eye.

Mayhap she was addressing the wrong dwarf, she snorted to herself. Her attention slid beyond Bofur to Dori, Dár, and Hlein. At her silent request, the three older dwarves nodded in unison. 

Reassured, she joined Gaearon and Barhador. When Imrahil gestured them from the hall, the three chosen to speak on the Black Company’s behalf followed.

OoOoOo

Prince Imrahil ushered the trio into his study, watching as they selected seats and noting how closely they chose to sit to one another. The elf and man bracketed the dwarf, granting her prior words more weight. Elf and dwarf working together? Only dire need could produce the unity he witnessed here.

Whether that boded ill for his own people remained to be seen. Lord Ulmo grant it not herald another difficulty for my people. Already his city was burdened to the breaking point.

_No, not breaking,_ he corrected himself. His people mirrored the sea they loved. Water was a funny thing, its might often hidden until unleashed. 

His son, Elphir, came to stand beside the large oak desk dominating the center of the spacious room. Cool green eyes touched with gray slid his way, conveying his son’s shared worry. 

Imrahil seated himself in the small sitting area with his guests. “You asked for privacy. This, we now have. I assure you, there is no one in the room I would not entrust with my only daughter’s life. Now tell me, what does this have to do with Mordor?”

“First, may I inquire after the wellbeing of my niece?” the Ranger asked, his brow creased in such a way that accentuated his unusual hairline. The man’s blue-touched gray eyes held Imrahil’s soberly. 

_Niece. Curse you Henedor, what have you caused?_ Imrahil chose his path with care. “You claim kinship with her, but so, too, did the dwarf, Bofur?” He ended on a slightly higher note, the statement more a question.

It was Princess Dís who responded, the dam’s expression guarded. Though Imrahil had never heard mention of the lady before this day, her very carriage shouted of nobility. From her carefully braided hair to the blue gems in her short beard, she fit the label too thoroughly not to be believed. “Saldís’s tale is an unusual one. One you, Prince Imrahil, need to hear. But to answer you, yes, she is niece to this Ranger by blood and to Bofur by adoption.”

Adoption. It answered one question but spawned a dozen more.

Barhador leaned forward, one hand on his knee with elbow bent to the side. “Some of this story may sound familiar to you.”

“Oh?” Elphir asked, tone sharp.

“Almost a century ago,” Barhador explained, “Mithrandir came to my people. He suspected all was not quiet, that Shadow was once again spreading through the lands around Mordor. He asked us to inquire of the Rangers of Ithilien.”

Imrahil leaned back in his seat, intent upon the man’s tale. “Go on.”

A bittersweet smile appeared on the other man’s face. “My father, Erthor, was chosen to be the messenger.” Barhador sighed. “There was no evidence of any immediate threat, so he allowed himself to be argued into letting my younger brother, Thanguron, and my sister, Fandes, to accompany him.” The smile vanished. “They never reached Ithilien. All three vanished and until recently, my people had no clue about their fates. What we did learn was that at the same time, many of the daughters of Ithilien were stolen.”

“This, we have heard about,” Elphir said, leaving the desk to stand at Imrahil’s elbow. “The mystery is one still discussed to this day.”

“My nephew, Faramir, is the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien,” Imrahil explained to Princess Dís and Captain Gaearon. From the lack of surprise on Barhador’s face, the Ranger had already known this. “Tell me. What happened to them?” For it was plain to Imrahil that the three knew.

Princess Dís quietly responded, “Tell me, Prince Imrahil. What do you know about the Black Númenóreans?”

Imrahil stiffened. Surely she could not be implying…?

It _was_ what she implied. Dís informed him of the rise of an enemy presumed extinct to their south. She told him about Saldís’s adoption and her abduction. The rediscovery many years later in Dale. Imrahil learned about Arcanists and Weapons. Training hidden within lands he’d believed empty for hundreds of years. 

Imrahil rubbed hands down his face. _Henedor, you fool. Your blindness has cost us all._ The man’s mistakes could prove the death of them. _Denethor, you were more right than you know._ Long had his brother-in-law, the Steward of Gondor, proclaimed them doomed. 

Imrahil had refused to allow his own confidence to be undermined by the man’s growing paranoia, and he refused to bow to it now. They would wring victory from these dark times. How remained to be seen, but Imrahil had faith that the strength of men would rise to the challenge. 

His eyes flicked back to Barhador, Dís, and Gaearon. The reason for the unlikely alliance now laid bare, Imrahil’s suspicions about them died. _I’ll need to send word to Faramir of this, as swift as may be._ A force of sorcerers likely to march upon Minis Tirith? 

Eru aid them all. 

“Now,” Princess Dís said more sharply. “Where is my Longbeard?”

OoOoOo

Fingers tapping upon the arm rests of her chair, Dís awaited Prince Imrahil’s answer, by now certain something was terribly amiss. Imrahil’s face had turned pained, and she judged the emotion sincere.

Imrahil’s elbows descended to his knees as he leaned forward. His hands clasped together before him, but his gaze did not waver from Dís’s. “If you have not heard, Dol Amroth stands on the precipice of full war. Corsairs have overrun our waters, laying hold to Pelargir. Mordor’s forces have raided as far south as Harondor, pillaging up and down the coastline. But it is the white city of Minis Tirith that has borne the brunt. Dol Amroth has not suffered to the extent of our kin, but we are Gondorians. We stand with Minis Tirith.”

“What has this to do with our Saldís?” Barhador asked quietly.

Prince Imrahil leaned back, palms sliding along his thighs. “Suspicions of anything out of the ordinary run rampant.” His lips compressed in a brief show of anger. “The woman was put in the charge of a man who’d lost family to her in a raid almost a decade ago.”

_Mahal, no._ Dís’s skin prickled. At her side, she was aware of Barhador’s tall frame going absolutely still.

“Instead of leaving her untouched as commanded, he tortured her,” Imrahil informed him, his voice soft with cold anger. “Where she is, I do not know. As best as my men can determine, Gart attacked her during the storm. His treachery was uncovered, but Gart turned upon the crew mate who discovered his crime.”

“Where is she?” Dís repeated in a hard voice, her Durin temper flaring. This was not Imrahil’s fault. But once she got her hands on Gart, he’d rue the day he touched one of hers.

A flicker of Imrahil’s sea-gray eyes. “As I said, I do not know. When the storm ended, Captain Henedor and his first mate discovered the crew member who’d uncovered Gart’s crime unconscious in the room in which she’d been held. Gart was dead, his throat crushed.”

Dís’s lips turned numb. “There’s more.” She could detect it in the air.

“There is more,” Imrahil said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. The hand dropped. “Gart was stripped, his clothes and weapons—as well of those of the sailor he’d attacked—were stolen. Only Gart’s dagger was left behind.” 

Now, Dís thought, the man looked truly uncomfortable. Her skin prickled. 

“It was left thrust through his manhood, pinning him to the floor,” Imrahil concluded.

Dís was up and pacing before the last syllable faded, fury roiling through her veins. By Durin. Her hands balled into fists, and it was all she could do not to use every swear word she’d ever learned from her brothers. 

Until she remembered that none in the room would understand Khuzdul. Then, her epithets rained down without restraint.

“You mean to tell me she jumped overboard?” Barhador’s voice sounded tight as never before. Dís whirled to hear the prince’s answer.

“As she was not to be found anywhere upon the ship, that is the only conclusion we can make.” 

“Why would she attempt the sea?” Elphir asked, the man’s angular face creased in disbelief. 

“Saldís has always lacked trust where men are concerned,” Dís managed in a growl. “The only men she’s known but for our Rangers were the Black Númenóreans, and they routinely exposed their girl-children to the sight of rape to keep them in line.” 

Both prince and heir blanched. 

Dís turned her back on them. _Mahal._ ‘Twas a wonder Saldís had not slain the entire crew.

_Or is that why she jumped?_ Dís rubbed her forehead, sickened to imagine how driven the woman must have felt to dare the sea. 

Facing an open window, Dís said, “From what you describe, Gart raped her. Or attempted it.” By Durin, what damage would that do to the woman? What damage did torture do? The cur may have destroyed them all in his blind quest for revenge: dwarves, elves, and men. 

Unexpectedly, it was Gaearon to break the terse silence. “I will need information about the sea’s currents typical of this time of year.”

Dís’s anger paused. Her eyes flew to the dark haired elf. 

“You cannot believe she survived,” Imrahil said.

Gaearon’s expression was neutral. “Though not a part of the Company, I listened. I watched. By all accounts, Saldís’s life has not been one of ease. If any could make that swim, it would be one of her mettle. The woman does not surrender easily.” Gaearon’s palms spread. “We will search.” Leaf-green eyes turned Dís’s way. “As soon as the Vengeance is repaired, we will scour the coastline.”

_Aulë help us._ To do so would rob the Black Company of precious time they could not afford. Nay, there was another alternative. The elves would indeed be departing Dol Amroth. But their destination would have nothing to do with finding her lost Longbeard.

Her voice thick, Dís said, “The Company must split.”

“I agree,” Barhador said softly. “My Rangers must begin our assault on the Black Númenóreans. Turning them against one another will not happen overnight.” To the elf, Barhador directed, “We will need you to take us onward.”

Gaearon inclined his head. 

Dís fingered a bead within her House braid, one obtained from her dam long ago. What was the Company to do if Saldís hadn’t survived? Dís set her grief and anger aside with difficulty. Durins did not give up. And by her sons’ graves, Dís wouldn’t be the first. 

She only hoped some course would become plain when they reached Caeldor. The Black Company would reach enemy lands, and they _would_ find a way to save those children. Her shoulders firmed. 

At Barhador’s questioning glance, she said, “I ask you lend your best tracker to the effort in locating Saldís. I refuse to simply abandon her.”

“Done,” the Ranger said.

“I will add a handful of small sloops that can be spared as well men to pilot them,” Imrahil interjected. “If the woman lives, we will do all we can to help locate her.”

Dís nodded her thanks. “We need to move fast.” To Gaearon, “If you are willing, Master Elf, I ask you sail the bulk of the Company to Umbar as planned.”

“Umbar?” Imrahil said with a frown. “The war has begun. Umbar is likely as roused as a hornet’s nest.”

“I disagree,” Barhador interjected. “No, most of them will be staged at Pelargir. They prepare to sail to Minis Tirith. I would stake my life upon it.”

Dís nodded jerkily, impatience granting her nervous energy. “Aye. Umbar will be largely emptied. We proceed as planned. Without Saldís, you, Barhador, will have to play the part of the Black Númenórean Weapons-Master with skill.”

“Or we’ll have to fight our way from the port,” the Ranger said dryly with a faint grin. 

“Not an altogether unappealing idea, is it?” Dís agreed. Aye, she longed an enemy to vent her outrage upon, too. “Bifur will remain behind.”

“Bofur, Nori and Dori as well, I presume?” Barhador asked. 

Elf and prince remained silent as Dís and the Ranger hashed out their change of plans. Dís shook her head. “Bofur, aye, I expect Bifur will need him. Dori as well. But Nori…” Quieter, “Nori I want with us. His unique skills may be needed.”

OoOoOo

Nori hugged his weeping brother as he watched Bifur destroy the fine dining hall around them, tears damp upon his _umral’s_ cheeks. Chairs and tables were thrown with the strength only an enraged dwarf could bring to bear. They shattered as they collided with walls and pillars, destroying plaster finishes and leaving indentations in the stone walls.

 _By Durin._ The ex-thief could read the cues the same as the others. For his niece to pin that piece of filth to the floor by his privates? Aye, sure as certain, she’d either been raped or near enough as to make no difference. 

After she’d been tortured. 

The lethal edge of Nori’s temper was roaring, aye it was, and if’n his niece hadn’t already dispatched the man who’d touched her, Nori would have seen to the matter himself. Slowly. Using his knives in creative ways few men could imagine. 

_Mahal. Where are you, our Saldís?_ Not dead. Surely not dead. 

‘Twas desperation that insisted she lived, not logic. They’d not been close to the northern shoreline when the storm had struck. The sea had churned with a violence he’d ne’er before witnessed. Could any, even the most experienced of swimmers, survive that?

Tears pricked his own eyes, and a sob near escaped him at sight of Finnin’s bowed head. The warrior had fallen to his knees upon hearing Dís’s news, his guilt and devastation too deep for more than silent tears. Finnur had arms tight around his brother, but Nori doubted the warrior knew he was there. 

In another corner of the hall, The Brothers argued with Barhador. None wished to leave. Not until Saldís was found, one way or the other. 

But they had a mission, didn’t they now? And while the heart had been stolen from Bifur, Nori had committed each atrocity against his niece to memory. Aye, he’d stored them up for a time when retribution would be possible. Her adâd might not be able to repay the Black Númenóreans just yet—locating Saldís would ever be Bifur’s priority—but Nori was ready and willing to see to the task. 

‘Twas time the crimes of the Black Númenóreans against the line of Durin were redressed.

OoOoOo

__  
**Elsewhere…  
10 February TA 3019**

The old man watched as a dark smudge in the distance drew nearer to shore with each progressive wave. He waited patiently as it slowly gained definition. 

A log? No, he swiftly decided, a mast, doubtless from the storm that had raged a week before. Pale gray eyebrows winged upwards as an ocean breeze ruffled the osprey feathers wound within the intricate braids containing his steel-gray hair.

A mast was of little interest to him, but he bided his time. Lean, wrinkled fingers rubbed reflectively over the groves and dips formed by the lifelike vines etched into his dark walnut staff from base to crown. 

Then he stilled, gaze sharpening, as he spied a body draped along the mast’s length. A woman, he deduced based upon the trim figure, though long black hair obscured the face. 

The old man’s head tilted to one side, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. What this development meant, he didn’t know, but he’d sensed Lord Ulmo’s power from afar. Though busy with pressing matters—too pressing, if he was quite honest—he’d felt compelled to investigate. 

Lightly spinning upon one heel, he hurried to gather supplies. If the woman lived, she would doubtless require aid. Water and food, most certainly. 

Keeping one eye on the mast’s progress towards the beach, he set about making camp.


	31. A Search...and Umbar

_**Anfalas  
13 February TA 3019** _

Nine days. 

‘Twas nine _days_ since his daughter threw herself off that accursed ship of men. Five days since Bifur had learned of her plight, and four days of searching. As had quickly become habit, his hand closed about his opposite wrist, feeling the second braided bracelet that had joined the first. 

His eyes closed tight. ‘Twas like history repeated itself, and Bifur rocked under the brutal blow. _Endure,_ he whispered in his soul. _Endure for me again, Saldís. You are out here. I know it in my heart, lass._

Bifur’s face felt frozen in lines of fear as he dismounted the pony he’d been loaned. The jingle of tack told him when his guides did the same. 

Prince Imrahil had been as good as his word, providing a ship and mounts to the members of the Black Company who had stayed behind while the others continued to Umbar. He, Dori, Bofur, and Thannor had been sailed to waters near where their lass was suspected to have gone overboard. From there, they’d split into teams to scour the countryside, one member of the Company with each group of men. 

Bifur didn’t wait for the three men accompanying him, silent and grizzled souls more at home in the wilds than their pretty city. Nay, Bifur’s steps rushed down a sandy slope dotted with scrub brush to the beach below, the weight of his spear banging him in the back from its harness. His Saldís’s sword, reclaimed from men, knocked against his right knee. 

His eyes swept along the shore in search of any sign that she’d been here, chest tight with a blend of fear and hope. Would he at last learn something of his daughter’s fate? 

_She’s alive,_ he told himself grimly. He’d not believe otherwise until proof stared him in the face. He’d given up once before, hadn’t he now, only for Nori to find his Saldís hale and hurting in Dale. This time would be different. 

He was a dwarf driven. Sleep eluded him. If not for needing the men’s expertise of the sea’s currents to know where to search, he’d have left them the first night they halted to rest.

Fearful images played through his mind, images created by Dís’s disclosure of how the men had found the ruffian, Gart. What had that man done to his daughter? Beaten her, aye, that was a given. Anger roared in his chest to think of it. 

But such an assault, Bifur believed, would not traumatize his Saldís. Infuriate her, aye, and drive her behind that cold wall of hers, but it would not damage her.

But by Mahal, the other would. Rape. The word caused his blood to boil. Aye, rape would wound his lassie. He knew it in his bones. Wherever she was, she was hurting. That accursed anger would have returned with a vengeance. How not? Doubtless her distrust of men would be substantially worse than before. 

_Let it not extend to the Khazâd,_ he prayed. He could not bear to think of her flinching from him.

_Nay. She knows we’d not hurt her._ It was why he’d insisted Bofur, Dori, and Thannor separate to accompany the different groups of searchers. In her present state, Saldís might well turn on the Gondorians without pause. But her uncles? She’d slit her own throat first. 

Unless, a part of him whispered, she’d embraced that Akhora side of herself. Akhora was his daughter—Bifur held no delusions about that—but that side of her had been twisted by rage and hatred. If that cold mindset ruled her, would she stay her hand if ‘twas Thannor who found her?

_She’ll not harm her cousin._ He had to believe that. Had to believe the Saldís who laughed and loved remained, that what had been done to her had not eradicated her completely. 

_And if you’re wrong?_

No matter what, he’d not abandon his daughter. If he must drag her back to Thorin’s Hall to once again allow the Saldís side of her to reemerge, that is what he’d do. The world could burn before he’d forsake her.

With a deep inhale to steady himself, Bifur directed his attention not to the beach itself—the waves had swept it clean of all evidence numerous times by now—but the debris just beyond the waves’ reach. Crouching, he sifted through the collection of plant material, shells, and flotsam along its edge. 

If so much as one hair from his daughter’s head was here, he’d find it.

OoOoOo

Thannor climbed down the dark rocky shelf hugging the shoreline, gray eyes hooded and senses alert. This small bay was treacherous, possessing no beach to speak of, but since the two men accompanying him proclaimed a strong current emptied here, he ignored the way jagged rocks sliced at his leather gloves and descended with grim determination.

If Saldís lived, the shaggy-haired Ranger intended to find her. He had no doubts her dwarven family was scouring the land with all their might, but Thannor knew his worth. Of the Black Company’s Rangers, he was the best tracker. 

_Where are you, Cousin?_

His gut told him she lived, impossible as it seemed. Bofur had explained the significance of the scar upon her hand during the Company’s voyage south, the one matching a Khuzdul rune. Like the dwarf, Thannor couldn’t believe it coincidence. 

No, some Power worked in his cousin’s life, perhaps as far back as to make Fandes’s escape from Kimilzor possible. Surely that benefactor—one of the Valar, perhaps?—would not permit Saldís to be slain now. Not when so much rested on her shoulders. 

_For the children’s sakes,_ he sent to Eru. _If not for my father or Bifur. You must spare her._

Reaching the waterline, Thannor splashed into the sea, surprised at the strength of the current. Though the water only lapped at his knees, he was challenged to retain his footing. With one hand to the ragged stone wall beside him, he sloshed forward, eyes alert for any trace of hair, clothing, or blood upon the rocks. 

Hours later, he painstakingly retraced his path up the rocky shoal to his guides. 

Saldís had not come ashore here.

OoOoOo

_  
**Umbar**  
_

Master Arcanist Ne-Baehzor strolled along Umbar’s crumbling stone streets, not bothering to hide his disdain at the insignificant sea rats drinking themselves into oblivion. The whores, he curled a lip at, sneering at their petty offerings. He’d had better in the Den. The aged, perfumed flesh to be found here turned his stomach. 

Boredom dogged his footsteps. With so many Corsairs gone, the ancient port that typically thrummed with excitement languished in apathy. The Weapons making up the rest of the Black Númenórean presence here patrolled as commanded—Baehzor would not permit utter laxity as it was his neck in the noose should Ib-Valkthor return and discover otherwise—but the action was rote, not necessitating any of their superior skills.

_We are wasted here,_ he growled to himself. 

The tedium was too much. The whores, he wouldn’t touch if paid. _But there are other options._ Baehzor’s lips curled. 

As soon as the impulse occurred to him, he acted on it. He began hunting the younger females—girls not yet showing the curves of adulthood, but their skin was smooth, their bodies supple. Corsair daughters, most of them, but their daddies were away in Pelargir, and of those, few would care. 

He purred to himself. This would be as fun as ruining young Novices, using them brutally until there was no chance they would pass their Tests the next day. It was a method he was not the only Arcanist to have used to ensure the beauties among their kindred ended up in the Den where they belonged. 

An evil grin spread upon his face, one an old woman spotted. She gasped and vanished inside her hovel, slamming the rickety door shut in her wake. He chuckled. 

Baehzor figured he had a day, probably two, before Ib-Valkthor returned. Umbar was under Baehzor’s command until then, and he intended to take what enjoyment he could. 

Anticipation flooded his veins. Would any of the few remaining Corsairs object? He relished the idea of a confrontation. Baehzor would enjoy wielding his arcane talents on these grubby creatures barely deserving the title of _men._

Worst of the sea rats was the absent Captain of the Haven. _Puffed-up, insignificant animal._ That man needed to learn his place. Baehzor bristled, his anger sparked in remembrance of the man’s refusal to heed Baehzor’s words before departing for Pelargir. Ne-Baehzor had pointed out that Ib-Valkthor had _requested_ the Captain maintain a small contingent of fighters here. The port was likely safe, but Valkthor was nothing if not fiercely paranoid of his own neck. 

So, too, were they all since the Mouth. If the Houses had jockeyed for position before the previous Lord Sangahyando’s transformation, the competition was infinitely more intense now. None could help but think that if Sauron needed more of such monsters, the least valuable House would be the sacrificial victim.

None could convince Baehzor it was not possible, nor most of the rank and file Númenóreans. If a Lord could be done so, what protection did the rest of them have? _None,_ a part of him raged.

Baehzor growled low in his throat. Instead of heeding Ib-Valkthor’s thinly veiled command, the Captain of the Haven had taken every able-bodied Corsair with him, leaving only the aged and infirm behind. 

It left Umbar vulnerable, and while it was unlikely the port would be threatened with Pelargir the focus of hostilities, Baehzor didn’t like his predicament. If anything happened to Umbar, Valkthor would suffer. It would be Baehzor in turn upon whom the sword would fall. 

Impatience filled him. Where had all the young girls disappeared to? In a pique, he kicked a beggar from his path, savoring the bony man’s cry of pain before he rounded a corner onto the broad walkway that bordered Umbar’s extensive array of stone docks—docks that had been almost completely empty for weeks now. 

_What’s this? A new arrival?_ Malicious anticipation filled him. Derelict as it was, it could not be captained by anyone of importance, and Ne-Baehzor was eager to see what fun could be had from its crew. Why were these sea rats not in Pelargir?

His thin eyebrows climbed as he neared the ship. _Black Númenóreans?_ Ib-Valkthor had spoken nothing of this, and that set Ne-Baehzor’s suspicions afire.

None were from House Sangahyando. That went without saying. Ar-Nahlis kept a tight rein on her House. Communication among every commander was maintained, for she hated surprises. It was her intention that House Sangahyando not only emerge from the war preeminent, but that they did so in a way that would ensure their dominance for centuries to come. 

_So what House works here?_ That the entire crew was composed of Black Númenóreans instead of the typical arrangement of Númenóreans commanding a Corsair crew told him something was afoot. Another House was currying favor with the Duumvirate…and perhaps the Dark Lord himself. 

Whatever the other House schemed, Baehzor would not permit it success. That they’d gotten this far, training an entire team of Númenóreans to sail in secret, told him whatever this gamble might be, the House in question believed it would change their standing. 

His footsteps accelerated to a brisk walk. Whatever plot was at work, he’d root it out. Then with the help of the Weapons under his command, Baehzor intended to turn this discovery to House Sangahyando’s benefit.

OoOoOo

Finnin waited impatiently within the confines of the cramped, musty-smelling crate. From where his crate had been left upon the Vengeance’s deck, he could hear little of what occurred outside, only enough to know the Rangers bartered with one of the warehouse overseers his Saldís had told them to expect.

Saldís. Pain spread through his chest, tightening his throat. _Live, lass. You must live._ He’d shave his beard if he could but see her smile again. The breath rushed from his lungs as he remembered how very enchanting she’d been in the Bindbole Woods, her head thrown back as she laughed at Nori’s feigned displeasure. 

His hands clenched around his big ax. His dreams had been full of her. Nightmares in which he held her lifeless body, clutching her to him as the agony of loss ripped him in twain. Beauteous dreams in which she returned alive and untouched by Gart’s assault. 

How awkwardly she’d touched his face in those dreams. He’d dared to lean forward and brush his lips to hers. Instead of violence, she’d pressed closer. In that imaginary encounter, kiss had followed kiss, and it was all he could do not to crush her to him, to claim her lips with a passion Finnin feared now impossible in the wake of Gart’s assault. 

Finnin’s arms felt empty upon waking, and he feared they would remain that way. He tormented himself by replaying the dream in his mind, aye he did, yet he could not resist. Such dreams might be all he had left. 

_Nay, I’ll not believe that._ To his lassie, _You hold on, Dushin-Mizim. Your Adâd will find you._

If there was one thing Finnin could be sure of, it was that Bifur would never stop. Nothing would halt him from finding their lass.

OoOoOo

Barhador’s disdainful expression never changed as the weasel of a man spat a wad of foul-smelling brown material from his mouth, directing it over the Vengeance’s side. The overseer’s muddy brown eyes shifted to where his dock workers huddled near the gangplank, unwilling to remain aboard the Vengeance a second longer than necessary.

 _Believe,_ Barhador willed as the overseer’s gaze returned to the open crate between them. Inside rested a mishmash assortment of Kyri’s false relics upon a bed of straw, each chipped at and sanded to appear worn by centuries innumerable. 

Barhador squinted, marking the sun’s position. _Not quite noon._ There was still time to get the Vengeance’s deceptive cargo into a warehouse before night fell. That and the additional gift from Prince Imrahil: messenger birds to carry word north as needed. Three birds. Three messages, and Eru grant nothing went so horribly wrong that the Company needed them. 

The Rangers and elves were dressed in their Black Númenórean garb, a precaution for the elves that Barhador was grateful Dori had anticipated before the Company’s departure from Dol Amroth. Barhador’s fingers itched to touch his sword, an impulse he ignored as the overseer bent down, head cocked to the side. 

_Listening for the eerie noise his men described,_ Barhador deduced. Finnur’s adjustments had elicited the desired effect upon the dock hands when they’d forced their way upon the ship insisting all cargo must be checked and hauled into the warehouses by them.

For a fee, of course.

Each Ranger waited. Silent. Ready. The dwarf members of the Company were hidden inside crates mixed among those holding the “artifacts”. Barhador didn’t need sight of them to know their weapons would be in hand. If things went amiss here, the dwarves would burst from their hiding places, joining the Rangers in striking down their enemies. 

“What seems to be the problem, Koraj?” a new voice intruded. A man garbed in attire identical to Barhador’s loped up the plank’s incline onto the Vengeance. Three onyx earrings glinted in his ear. 

_Master-Arcanist,_ Barhador instantly labeled, body tensing. He’d known a small force of Black Númenóreans would be posted with the Corsairs, but he’d hoped they’d be within Pelargir with the lion’s share of Umbar’s pirates.

“Why do you delay my people?” the Arcanist asked. Gray eyes flicked Barhador’s way with too much greedy speculation. 

“Ne-Baehzor, this does not concern you,” Overseer Koraj greeted with a mixture of reserve and resentment. 

_Ne-Baehzor._ Though Saldís had not asked Kyri to sketch this cretin, Barhador recognized the name. _House Sangahyando,_ he identified, his mind already at work to formulate answers for the questions he anticipated would come. 

_If questioned,_ Saldís had told him during their voyage, _your best option is to claim allegiance to House Vinuir. It’s the smallest House, and the least powerful. It will cause the Black Númenóreans to suspect you of orchestrating some scheme to bolster your position, but the chance of running into a member of that House is small. Better our foes believe you a Númenórean jockeying for position than being outed as an impostor._

“I report directly to Ib-Valkthor,” Baehzor said icily. “With the Captain of the Haven away, _he_ rules Umbar.”

_Ib_ -Valkthor? A minute shuffling among The Brothers caused Barhador to glare them to stillness. He, too, recognized that name. His niece’s half-brother was fortunate he was not present. Barhador could name at least two dwarves who would kill him on sight if they could. 

“Rules?” Koraj said with brows lifted high. “You overstep yourself, Arcanist. This is our city. Ib-Valkthor _advises_ the Captain of the Haven. Which begs the question, Ne-Baehzor. Should your leader not be with the Captain?”

Malice twisted the Black Númenórean’s thin, haughty features. The hair upon Barhador’s nape lifted. His skin broke out with gooseflesh as the Arcanist extended one hand…and flame burst to life upon the Arcanist’s palm. 

_Sweet Eru._ An overwhelming sense of wrongness emanated from the Arcanist, powerful enough that Barhador knew he could close his eyes and yet pinpoint exactly where Baehzor stood. The arrogance of it—the blasé way in which the Arcanist called upon forces not intended for men by Eru—appalled Barhador to his core. That the man would dare violate nature as a whim…

The overseer backed away in a hurry, dignity discarded and eyes holding a wealth more caution than previously. His throat convulsed.

“What was it you were saying?” Baehzor crooned. 

_We must reach Aragorn,_ Barhador thought. It was one thing to hear such foul arts were practiced by their distant, estranged kin. It was quite another to see its proof firsthand, to now be able to clearly imagine what the war before them would entail. _Mithrandir, I do hope you are prepared for this._

Had Halbarad reached their liege yet with warning of this new threat? Had the dwarves’ ravens?

“My apologies, Ne-Baehzor. Of course, you are correct. A simple jest. You understand,” the overseer groveled. Sweat beaded his face.

_This must be atypical, the brandishing of their magics so freely._ Koraj did not strike Barhador as stupid. Grasping and greedy, yes. He would not trust the man not to sell his own mother for a profit. But not foolhardy.

Ne-Baehzor’s face blanked of all expression. Then with a negligent fling of the hand, he sent his handful of fire randomly into the crowd of dock workers. 

A worker screeched as his tunic caught fire like dry kindling. _By the Valar._ The victim was nothing but skin and bones—a slave? a servant? The poor man’s shriek tore at Barhador’s nerves as the worker thrashed in agonized terror.

Not a soul moved to help him. 

Barhador was a split second from intervening, hang the consequences, when the man tripped and fell overboard, splashing into the sea below. A cold feeling grew in the Ranger’s belly. Had he stood idle and watched a man die?

The silence that followed was sharp-edged. The knave Baehzor dared to don a smug expression. _He has no idea he stands at death’s door._ All Barhador must do was lift a hand, and the Black Company would attack. More than likely, a number of his Rangers watched closely in the hopes of receiving that very command. 

Barhador was tempted to acquiesce. Instead, he opted to end this. 

_Always act as if the world obeys your command,_ Saldís had said. _Unless you face one of the Lords or Hands, any with equal rank or lower must be treated as if they are cockroaches you are forced to tolerate._

Nudging the crate before him with one foot, Barhador said, “If House Sangahyando has concluded its petty theatrics, perhaps the rest of us can get some work done.”

Baehzor stiffened, head whipping to glare at Barhador. 

Barhador heeded Saldís’s counsel and behaved as if the Arcanist was utterly inconsequential. “Overseer, I need these crates moved.”

The overseer’s eyes gleamed. With a minute shake, he straightened and snapped his fingers. 

Dock workers swarmed around the crates, shying away from Baehzor as if the man had leprosy, and began the heavy work of moving dozens of ponderous wooden crates off the Vengeance’s deck. From the way some struggled to lift their burdens, Barhador was able to determine which of them contained his comrades. 

Baehzor inched towards the still-open crate at Barhador’s feet, eyeing its contents. Barhador took great pleasure in signaling lanky Himon, the closest of his Rangers, to seal it, but based upon the Arcanist’s swift inhale and the flare of his eyes, Baehzor had drawn the conclusion the Black Company wished. _Good._

To needle the Arcanist, Barhador tossed Koraj a pouch of coins. “Your swift attention to this task would be appreciated,” he told him. “House Vinuir does not need displays of temper with which to bulwark a false sense of superiority.”

Someone snorted in laughter that was hastily stifled. Baehzor growled, gray eyes alight with fury. Facing Baehzor directly, Barhador said, “Get off our ship, Sangahyando. Or I’ll throw you off.”

Captain Gaearon’s green eyes crinkled above his face covering as he, Himon, and Medlinor stepped forward to back up his threat. 

Baehzor’s gray eyes blazed all the hotter. 

As the Arcanist whirled around to stalk off, Barhador’s next words caused his spine to snap straight. “And Sangahyando? Don’t think for a second that you can claim our prize and pass it off to the Duumvirate. My House was specifically chosen and groomed for this mission by Ar-Tagan. Present our cargo to the Duumvirate, and they will know your lie for what it is.”

From the venomous glare Baehzor threw back at Barhador, the Ranger knew he’d captured the man’s intent perfectly. Barhador’s words would put a halt to that, for now, as well as sow the first seed of distrust into the fool’s head. House Vinuir, granted a secret mission? 

Given Vinuir’s standing when last Saldís walked Caeldor’s streets, that would throw the other Houses into a tizzy. What had they missed? How could Vinuir have reached such a position of trust without them being aware of it? 

Oh yes, this opening salvo would work wonderfully. That this first deception struck at House Sangahyando only made it better. Kimilzor had been the one to steal Saldís. He’d raped Barhador’s sister. 

Sangahyando would be the first House to topple. Barhador would ensure it.

OoOoOo

Ten minutes later, Ne-Baehzor watched as He-Lohnan galloped east from Umbar upon the fastest _emala_ available. Given the dire nature of the warning, better He-Lohnan risk his neck by delivering it than Baehzor himself.

 _By the Eye._ His fists clenched. A twist at the waist permitted him to glare at the rooftop of the warehouse House Vinuir was certain to use to safeguard their prizes. 

How? _How,_ curse Sauron to the darkest reaches of the Pit, had Vinuir not only managed to win Ar-Tagan’s favor but _succeed?_ That Vinuir had emerged victorious implied their Arcanists had stumbled upon some craft, some trick, that the rest of them remained ignorant to, and that could not be tolerated. 

Sangahyando had been outstripped. If not for Baehzor happening upon the scene, Sangahyando would have had no warning of Vinuir’s sudden climb in status. Nor would there have been an opportunity to intervene.

Baehzor exhaled slowly. What happened to Lord Kimilzor would _not_ happen to Baehzor…nor his House, he belatedly tacked on, for their safety was his. No, not while he drew breath.

But what to do about it?

OoOoOo

Nori cracked open his crate and clambered out at the prearranged signal, the crick in his neck proof of the many hours that had passed in the cramped space. But for the small pools of light shed by hand lanterns held aloft by two Rangers, the cluttered warehouse of stone and wood was enveloped in darkness.

 _“Oi,_ Kai, will ye get off o’ me?” he heard Kyri grouse. A glance over one shoulder revealed Kyri shoving at his own crate’s lid whilst his brother’s was yet atop of it. 

“Hold your beard,” Kai huffed. The thin dwarf stomped from his brother’s crate in irritation. Then he blushed at Goira’s look of mild censure, his expression softening. “I’m moving.”

Nori pivoted on one heel, a smirk upon his lips. The ex-thief had caught the two lovebirds kissing in the Vengeance’s stairwell a time or three, a fact he’d not told Goira’s protective cousin, Ragan. It amused Nori to no end to see their healer already using _that_ look upon the silversmith. 

_Yer single days are numbered, Kai my lad._ Not that the silversmith seemed inclined to object. Much the opposite. 

Nori’s smile faded upon witnessing Finnin’s stark envy as the warrior watched the two. By Aulë’s lifted hammer, Nori hoped to one day witness the same scene play out for Finnin and Saldís. 

_Don’t you dare die on us,_ he directed to his absent niece. _You keep your head and fight the good fight. We’ll be waiting._

Nori exhaled, his thoughts turning. Saldís might not be here— _Yet,_ he stubbornly maintained—but her Uncle Nori was, and by his beard, he’d not let so choice an opportunity as presented to him this day to pass. 

He tugged upon Finnin’s sleeve, then he headed straight for Dís, unsurprised to find her sandwiched between Barhador and Lord Hlein. 

The princess’s gaze flicked Nori’s way, and her right eyebrow hiked upwards. In a bland voice, she asked, “Am I going to like what put that look upon your face?”

Nori rocked upon his heels. “I guarantee it,” he said without doubt. “Unless you’re adverse to weakening the enemy, sowing a wee seed of distrust among foes, and inflicting a measure o’ payback against one of the very scoundrels who harmed our Saldís most.”

“Who?” Finnin asked in a soft and threatening voice, a hard look in his eyes.

Before Nori could answer, The Brothers converged around them. “We’re in,” Berenor said without a smidgen of hesitation. 

“He has yet to share his plan,” Barhador said dryly. “It’s usually a good idea to get the details before volunteering.” The Ranger’s hand softly cuffed Berenor on the back of the head.

Berenor frowned at his grandsire. “If this is for my cousin, it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, we’re in.” His blond- and black-haired, ever-present bookends nodded in full agreement.

Nori’s throat tightened at that show of loyalty. _Och, our Saldís. Whether you know it or not, you’ve wormed your way into these Rangers’ affections, too. Come back, lass. Wherever it is you’ve wound up, use that mule-headed stubbornness o’ yours and return to us._

Nori didn’t want to think upon what it would do to Bifur and Finnin if she didn’t. 

Or himself.

Dís cleared her throat. “Alright, Nori. Tell me what you have in mind.”

Nori flashed her a toothy smile. Valkthor would regret ever targeting his niece. Aye, a simple, clean death was too good for the Arcanist. Nori preferred the man suffer first. To that end, he outlined his plan for his attentive audience. 

Since Valkthor was so fond of games, Nori intended to present him with a memorable one.


	32. Nori's Game

Captain Gaearon could not contain his soft chuckles as the first of Umbar’s denizens was trundled onto his ship, and small smiles lit many of his crew’s faces. Tales of this night were certain to be enjoyed for many centuries to come, he thought with a wider grin.

The Corsair looked to be of advanced age with disheveled gray hair, bronzed skin, and joints left knobby by frailty. The young Dunedain trio—Erynor, Calenor, and Berenor—set the glaring man down on the deck, then straightened. 

Erynor clapped his hands together. “One down.”

“About three hundred more to go,” Calenor responded.

“If you do this one at a time, it will take the better part of a week,” Gaearon commented with a smile. 

The Brothers grinned in unison. “Fair enough,” blond-haired Erynor said. “This one was stumbling about by himself. With an invitation like that, how could we refuse?”

“The good captain is right, though,” Berenor said with a respectful dip of the head. “For this to work, Umbar must be emptied before dawn. Let’s hope the rest of its citizens are as easy as this one.”

To which the elderly Corsair mumbled angry, unintelligible words around his gag. 

“Calm yourself, Grandfather,” Berenor said, patting the man on the head. “You’ll be fine. Just think of this as another adventure. You Corsairs do love to travel, don’t you?”

A number of Gaearon’s elves chortled under their breath.

“What do you think Valkthor’s response to all of this will be?” Gaearon overheard Calenor murmur to his friends.

In response, the other two Brothers turned eminently smug and dangerous. After a jaunty wave to Gaearon, Berenor led the way down the gangplank, answering, “I intend to imagine him wetting his trousers.” 

The three soon vanished within Umbar’s streets.

This, Gaearon thought, was likely to be recorded as the oddest skirmish against their enemy in over an Age. _Perhaps ever,_ he amended.

His amused green eyes descended to the dock. Or its supports, rather. Though he’d only caught glimpses of a bright yellow jacket and red hair a handful of times, he trusted the dwarf inventor was busy at work. 

As, he hoped, was Fuinor, though his eyes saw no sign of his friend as the other elf ghosted among the handful of docked Corsair ships, the remnant of the pirates’ fleet. When— _If,_ an inner voice insisted—the Corsairs returned from Pelargir, they’d find their port much altered from when they’d last seen it.

OoOoOo

Ranger Orodon prowled Umbar’s streets openly. With his unremarkable brown hair—worn high up on his head in a short tail—and sun-darkened features, the thirty-eight-year-old resembled a Corsair himself in his stolen linen tunic, waist sash, breeches, and knee-high boots.

 _Wretched things,_ he thought with a brief scowl at the boots. They chafed against his heels with each step. Inferior craftsmanship, but what else could one expect from pirates?

His green-gray eyes lifted to the rooftops bracketing the street. Rangers in their black garb could be seen working from Umbar’s outskirts, slowly making their way sea-ward towards the docks as they subdued every Corsair they encountered, tied him securely, and transported him—again using rooftops—to the elves’ ship. Thus far, Orodon had seen no signs any had encountered resistance. 

He himself was on the hunt. Most of the Black Númenóreans, the Arcanist included, were holed up in an opulent estate in the southwestern quarter of town, doubtless plotting House Vinuir’s downfall. Barhador’s select team would deal with them. 

The three patrolling Weapons were Orodon’s responsibility. 

Spying one, he fell in behind the man. Though the Weapon studied his surroundings, to Orodon it appeared the man was bored. The Weapon’s gaze slipped past Orodon’s shammed drunkenness three times, never settling. _Complacency will be your death,_ he promised the Weapon silently. 

Orodon eyed the street ahead. Alleys interrupted the curving avenue from both sides in staggered intervals, and another street transected this one some hundred yards up ahead. The Ranger considered options, carefully choosing his time. As he passed by, whores called out to him, as they did to any man who approached. Orodon leered back as the locals did. Nothing about him appeared different. Nothing stood out.

He decided. _It will have to be an alley._ The Ranger could not risk whores or Corsairs objecting to the Weapon’s death, though a part of him wondered if they would care given the animosity he’d witnessed between the dock workers and the Arcanist. Still, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. Orodon had no time for unexpected difficulties. 

When the Weapon’s languid steps brought him to the corner of an alley, Orodon struck without warning. The blade of his dirk severed the man’s spine at the top of his neck before the Weapon even registered his peril. Orodon supported the body, making it appear all was well to any spectators, and marched it into the thick shadows dominating the alley. 

There, he dropped it among piles of trash and kicked litter over it. One down. Two to go. 

He returned to the street as if nothing had occurred. The byway was busy, but Orodon suspected what he saw now was nothing compared to Umbar’s nightlife when the bulk of its people were present. When the Captain of the Haven had emptied the city, he’d truly left it defenseless.

A sudden shout turned his attention to his second purpose. An underfed urchin darted past, weaving among pedestrians towards an alley farther down the street. From the shouts behind the boy, it was no mystery where the pouch in the little thief’s hands had come from.

Did no one south of Gondor value their children? In the short time Orodon had been in this wretched port city, he’d seen too many signs that the children were largely abandoned to fend for themselves. They could not all be orphans.

He quelled his sense of outrage with difficulty. Justice would be meted out upon Umbar’s populace soon enough. His job was not only to eliminate unsuspecting Weapons but to ensure the children were kept out of harm’s way. For Nori’s plan to work, the wild youths must not remain in Umbar after the Black Company departed. Valkthor could have no clue about what had transpired here.

Slipping a silver coin out of his own pocket, he flipped it idly as he’d seen Himon do too many times. If the lure of silver did not summon one of the packs of kids to him, nothing would.

OoOoOo

Nori crept up behind a pair o’ Corsairs sitting on rickety stools. A barrel of some sort serviced as a table between the two, and they had elbows firmly planted on the surface with hands nursing glass bottles half full of amber liquid.

Nori’s feet well remembered lessons from his thieving days, and truth be told, he was enjoying utilizing old skills once more. He stole up behind them, confident he’d not be heard. 

His partner this night, however… A scuffed step broke the silence, and the two men spun woozily in their seats. “Dwarves?” one slurred.

_So much for stealth._ Nori straightened and walked right up to them with a Bofur-esque smile. “Hello, lads.”

The men fumbled for their weapons far too late, really. ‘Twas appallingly easy for Nori to smack the sword from his target’s hand, and Kyri’s foe couldn’t seem to figure out how to free his sword from its sheath. In less time than it would take an elf to sing a high note, Nori sat upon his gagged and bound captive, ignoring the way the man grumbled and wiggled.

His gaze happened upon the Corsairs’ sad excuse for a table. One corner of his mouth hiked upwards. ‘Twas bound to be a long night, and there was no reason not to mix business with pleasure. With a significant look, he directed Kyri’s attention in the same direction. 

The sculptor snickered, easily following along. With a wide smile, he collected the Corsairs’ whiskey bottles, sat himself on his own prisoner, and handed one of the bottles to Nori. The two dwarves clinked the bottles together. 

“Cheers,” Kyri said. 

The whiskey went down right smoothly, the familiar burn warming to the soul. Both dwarves smacked his lips. 

“I’ll bet there’s more of this to be found in this pirates’ den,” Kyri commented.

The body beneath Nori erupted into renewed complaints around his gag. 

Nori yanked the man’s head back by his greasy hair. “Now, that was just rude. You need to work on your hospitality.” Which earned him a glare from the man.

Nori released his hold, ignoring the man’s angry sounds as the man’s face dropped back onto the aged pavement. Nori clapped Kyri on the back as he regained his feet. “We’ll keep a sharp eye out.” Waggling his brows, he added, “Such heavy lifting as we’ll be doing this night is bound to be thirsty work.”

OoOoOo

Finnin paused, two unconscious and bound Corsairs slung over his back, as shadows blotted out the starlight. Lifting his eyes, he counted five of the Dunedain leaping from roof to roof.

Barhador’s team. They who were after the bulk of Umbar’s Black Númenóreans. _Mahal be with you, my friends._

He itched to join them, but only the Rangers could blend in with the Weapons and cut them down before they realized their foe wore their own appearance. With any luck, the surprise nature of the attack would balance the odds. Five Dunedain against eleven Weapons plus one Arcanist? Aye, he hoped surprise evened the odds. 

He knew for a fact it was what Orodon banked upon during his own hunt.

Should surprise not tip the scales… By Durin, he chafed for more action than this sneaking about. Temptation bit down hard, and Finnin’s blue eyes slid to his left where his partner of the night, Ragan, stood.

The black-haired warrior’s lips tilted in a smirk as shifted his own burden—one an aged prostitute and the other her equally geriatric client, both of them gagged, bound, and full of hostile glares—and inclined his head. “Be a shame not to put your Saldís’s training to good use,” Ragan commented.

_His_ Saldís. “Aye,” he said roughly.

Ragan’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “We should follow. It would be irresponsible not to.”

A glimmer of amusement broke through Finnin’s grief. “Just to ensure our companions are successful.”

“It’s the honorable thing to do,” Ragan said with a sage nod. “We cannot go letting the Rangers face uneven odds without lifting our weapons in their defense.”

“Nay,” Finnin said with mock horror even as his lips fought to curl upwards. “It’d be a travesty. Why, we’d never live it down.”

“Never,” Ragan agreed somberly. Then leaning towards Finnin, Ragan said in an undertone, “Our secret. If we’re not needed, no one will ever know we were there.”

“Absolutely. We’ll be the souls of discretion.”

The friends grinned in unison. Then with their unwitting passengers in tow, the two followed the Rangers, taking care not to be seen.

OoOoOo

All was going well until the moment Berenor heard a Corsair’s outraged cry from the street below. He froze, head whipping downward. Instead of the inter-Corsair dispute he’d hoped to find, a dozen grizzled pirates glared up at him.

As his missing cousin would have said, _Orc spit._

“We’ve been spotted,” Erynor sang with heavy frustration.

“No, truly?” Calendor said sarcastically. 

A short look passed between themselves. The Brothers dumped their latest catches onto the tiled roof and swung down to the street below. Their swords cleared their sheaths in unison. 

The mob of Corsairs coalesced and slowly stalked closer. “I told ya they would betray us, Mithons,” one bow-legged, gray-haired Corsair said before spitting upon the broken pavement. 

The soul Berenor assumed to be Mithons grunted his agreement.

Berenor smiled. “The time has come to end our alliance,” he said, playing along. _If any of these wretches escapes, he’ll carry word to the Corsairs that the Black Númenóreans have turned upon them._ He considered permitting one to slip away for just that reason. “Put down your weapons.”

“The Captain of the Haven will hear of this,” a scarred-faced man warned.

Erynor’s blond brows lifted dramatically above his face covering. “You are assuming he will learn of it.”

Berenor winced. _Bad choice of words._ It sounded as if…

The dozen or so lame and aged Corsairs charged with a roar, and The Brothers were instantly surrounded. _This didn’t go as planned._ If they had to fight their way through all of Umbar, there was no way the Black Company would finish their task before sunrise. 

_We have to contain this._ Which meant subduing these Corsairs before the commotion summoned more of them. _“Hortho,”_ he hissed in Sindarin to his friends. (Hurry.)

Berenor ducked beneath a slicing blade, spinning with foot extended. One of the men squawked as he lost his balance and fell. A thump of Erynor’s hilt upon the man’s head ensured he stayed down. Another blade stabbed into The Brothers’ midst. Calenor dodged while Berenor’s blade forced it overhead, away from his friend.

The Brothers assumed a defensive posture, backs together. Berenor’s heart drummed out the well rehearsed pattern of battle. There was no thought of disarming their foes, not with the urgent need to silence them. Berenor’s sword danced left and right, and scarred, hard-faced men fell before him.

Swords clashed. Knives flew. One man broke a bottle and brandished it like a dagger. Outnumbered or not, The Brothers fought as they ever had: as a unit. The Corsair numbers steadily declined in tandem with the pile of bodies at the Rangers’ feet. 

Then a shout. Berenor’s lips flattened. _Too late._ Summoned by the call, nearby doors crashed open and more Corsairs spilled into the street. The Brothers’ tight formation rocked as the reinforcements joined the fray. Sweat trickled down Berenor’s freckled face as he struggled to withstand the onslaught. 

Then a stifled cry turned Berenor’s blood cold. _That was Calenor._

No, this was not going as planned.

OoOoOo

Orodon heard the commotion and witnessed the mob of Corsairs rushing down the street.

He waited. He’d spotted his next target headed his way, drawn by the racket. The slender man’s body thrummed with curiosity and impatience as he jogged after the Corsairs. 

When the Weapon drew even with him, Orodon’s blade flashed out at neck level. 

_Too easy._ If the Black Númenóreans were dire foes, their weakness was in their arrogance. Complacency had already cost two their lives. 

Hiding the second body in a cracked and dusty, waist-high planter, Orodon continued on.

OoOoOo

Barhador, Medlinor, Himon, Anuon, and Thalon heard the uproar to the east a split second before a horn blared. With all entry points to the Black Númenóreans’ estate but one boarded up, Barhador had been a breath away from attempting to steal inside the very exposed, very probably guarded front door when the alarm resulted in the door banging open.

That fast, his enemy stood before him. 

Barhador attacked before the surprised Weapon could blink. He kicked the man in the face, then slashed with his sword. The Weapon fell, injured but not fatally. Before Barhador could fix that, more black-clad bodies poured out the door. Blades speared at him from multiple fronts. 

Medlinor’s lean frame inserted itself at Barhador’s left shoulder, and the other man’s blade slapped a scimitar coming at Barhador aside. The hiss of a bow sounded from behind. _Anuon,_ Barhador identified as one, then two Black Númenóreans fell. 

But as Saldís had warned, Weapons were nothing if not adaptable. Fashioned in the crucible of do or die, they responded without hesitation, fighting on despite their injuries. 

A series of thin daggers flew over Barhador’s head—Anuon’s choked cry informed the Ranger the blades had flown true—and from the corner of one eye, Barhador saw Thalon struggle with a Weapon who’d managed to loop a garrote around his neck. 

How the rest fared, Barhador had no time to ascertain. It was all he could do to dodge the blades that penetrated the wall of protection his sword provided. As Saldís had warned, these Black Númenóreans were deadly, and the Ranger found himself truly harried. 

One of Barhador’s foes suddenly fell, granting him desperately needed space, and Himon took the fallen Weapon’s place. Satisfaction rushed through Barhador. Few could match Himon’s masterful swordsmanship.

Barhador drew a second weapon, a hunting knife, and went on the offensive. Sword and knife lashed out in tandem, seeking entry past his enemies’ defenses, while Thalon—free from the garrote but not his attacker—swung his massive broadsword through Black Númenórean ranks like a scythe.

Most of the Weapons dodged the big blade with ease, but a few— _Too few,_ Barhador thought grimly—were so engrossed in their own fights that they failed to see it coming. They fell in its wake. 

Medlinor abruptly gasped. The golden-haired Ranger’s sword wavered. Faltered. 

In a flash, his cousin was there. As Medlinor fell to his knees, Himon became his shield and vindicator, executing Medlinor’s assailant with cold and lethal fury. 

That was when a crack of tremendous thunder seemed to rend the sky…yet the sky remained cloudless, the stars visible. Barhador’s flesh prickled in revulsion.

It was his only warning before the ground beneath his boots jerked upwards an entire meter before crashing back down. The Rangers toppled from their feet. 

The Arcanist had entered the battle.

OoOoOo

A horn sounded.

Captain Gaearon scaled the Vengeance’s rigging with ease, gaining a higher vantage point from which to assess the Black Company’s predicament. Green eyes narrowed as the Teleri noted outbreaks of violence from two distinct locations within the city. 

_So be it._ He slid down a rope, landing on the deck with knees bent. Straightening, he called, “Ýridhrenel, Gwaeweth, guard our guests.” The two ellith nodded shortly before rushing down the stairs into the hold where Gaearon had ordered their prisoners moved. Almost as soon as they’d descended, three ellyn retraced their steps upwards. “Rosson, Thalawestor, I want your bows in the crow’s nest.”

His two best archers saluted before scaling the ladder to the high perch overhead. 

“Fuinor, you did as I asked?”

The silver-haired elf smiled. Beside Gaearon, the gray-eyed elf had seen the most years. He, too, had served their beloved King Gil-Galad until Sauron had claimed the High King’s life at the the Siege of Barad-dúr. “Yes, _mellon.”_

_Good._ Tilting his head back, he bellowed to the two archers above, “Light them up!”

Flaming arrows arced towards the few vessels remaining in harbor—fishing vessels, most of them, but also two ships outfitted for war. The instant the arrows hit, fire spread across the decks of the ships as it devoured the oil Fuinor had poured upon each of the poorly defended vessels earlier in the night. 

More alarms sounded. Gaearon lifted his own bow and joined the rest of his crew along the Vengeance’s docked side. How he loathed war and violence. He’d hoped to live out the rest of his days in the peace of the Grey Havens, to forget if he could the stench of blood and burning, the horrible cries of anguish and pain. 

It was not to be. He’d known the risk when he’d accepted Lord Círdan’s charge. _Manwë, let my arrows fly true._

As a horde of Corsairs rushed down the dock toward his ship, Captain Gaearon gave the order to fire.

OoOoOo

Dís halted Dár and Goira with a sharp hiss. All three ducked out of sight as a crowd of aged Corsairs rushed past, armed and heading for the Vengeance.

“Do all of Nori’s plans work so well?” Goira asked softly, a note of laughter in her voice.

Dís snorted. “Should we enter Mandos’s Halls this night, you may ask my brother,” she said dryly. 

“I’d rather avoid that, if’n ye don’t mind,” Dár said. The white-haired hunter eased back around the corner, bow in hand with arrow notched in preparation. “Clear.”

The two darrowdams followed him, Dís holding Death-Bringer in both hands while Goira hefted a spiked mace in one hand and a small shield in the other. For a healer, Dís thought, the maid had a bloodthirsty side. Her weapon of choice was a brutal one—the reason Dís had selected this healer over many twice her age.

“Where to?” Dár asked.

“The docks,” Dís decreed. “We can ill afford to lose the Vengeance now.”

The three broke into a jog, weaving through empty streets and over crumbling terraces. One could see that this city had been the equal to Dol Amroth in its construction, but where Dol Amroth had been maintained, Umbar’s grandeur had faded into decay under uncaring Corsair hands. 

“Do you still believe this plan feasible?” Goira asked breathlessly as they neared their destination.

Dís bared her teeth in a feral grin. “For Bifur and Saldís? Aye. We’ll need to crush these pirates swiftly, but by Durin, Valkthor deserves this. I care naught about the difficulty. We will see this done.”

Goira nodded shortly, questions lurking in her eyes, but it was neither time nor place for the discussion about their Saldís’s half brother and his gross betrayal of family. 

The three rounded one last corner to bring Umbar’s ancient stone docks into view. Dís’s eyes gleamed at the sight that met her. The few remaining ships belonging to the pirates crackled and burned angrily. But for a few men tossing pitifully small buckets of water at the blazes, the effort to douse the fires had been abandoned. 

There would be no escape by sea for these Corsairs. Her attention turned to the Black Vengeance and a bark of laughter escaped her. 

Dár chuckled by her right shoulder. “Almost makes a soul pity the wretches,” he said.

“Almost,” Goira corrected pertly, a warning glint in her eye. The healer firmed her grip upon her mace. “One cannot forget just what these people do to their victims.”

_Aye._

Dís watched with satisfaction as a stream of elvish arrows flew from the Vengeance, a deadly barrage that felled Corsairs with such accuracy that none passed within a seventy foot radius of the ship. From the looks of things, the Corsairs were swiftly losing their nerve. ‘Twas one thing to mob an enemy. ‘Twas quite another to die without ever reaching them. 

Dár lifted his own bow and cocked an arrow. “Can’t let the pointy-ears have all the glory,” the white-haired hunter murmured with a sly sideways looks towards Dís. 

Dís firmed her grip upon her dead brother’s sword. “We cannot have that,” she agreed. “Outdone by elves? Nay, we’d never hear the end of it.” Then to Goira, “Stay close by my side, Healer.” Dís faced the enemy. “Hunter? Try to leave us dams a few to play with, aye?”

Dár chortled.

Then with a shout— _“Du-bekâr!”_ —the last of the line of Durin charged the Corsairs from the rear. She and Gloira crashed into the Corsair line like a battering ram. Death-Bringer flashed left, then right, drinking deep of enemy blood.

_For you,_ she told her sons and brothers. This, she vowed, was just the start of what she, daughter of Thrain, would do to Sauron’s army.

OoOoOo

“That’s it?” the scruffy urchin asked of Orodon with narrowed eyes, his body poised on the verge of flight. His habitual state, Orodon suspected.

“That is all,” the Ranger confirmed, head tilting as the sounds of battle grew more intense a few streets over. 

The boy, no more than eight if Orodon was any judge, shifted on his feet. “How’s I know you’re not fibbing?”

Orodon’s heart ached for the boy, a fact he was careful to conceal. No child should be so jaded and distrustful. Even so, Orodon knew that as difficult as this child’s life might be, it was a blessed one compared to the Novices he and his kindred were determined to save. _Perhaps when all is said and done, we can do the same for these youths, too._

“What do you have to lose?” he asked. “If I lie, your purse will yet be heavier.”

The black-haired, dark skinned boy seemed to weigh that. 

“Do we have a deal?” Orodon pressed, impatient to track down his comrades. 

At last, the child nodded. 

Orodon placed a bulging sack of copper coins in the boy’s hands. “That’s half of what I promised. You hunt down the other orphan gangs and get them out of Umbar.” As the child greedily opened the money pouch and fingered the wealth inside, Orodon pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t renege on me. If I’m telling you the truth, you do not want to be here when that Arcanist arrives.”

Too-knowledgeable eyes stared up at him. “Ya don’t need to warn me. We knows what happens to folks as runs afoul o’ one o’ them.” 

“I’ll leave the rest hidden in that planter over there,” Orodon said, pointing to a large piece of crockery on a terrace that in its heyday would have been elegant. _“If_ I find you’ve warned the other bands to flee.” 

The child nodded. Frowned. Then without word, he sprinted away.

Orodon exhaled slowly. He hoped he had that child’s measure, and he’d do as asked. For Nori’s plan to work, Umbar must be emptied of all her residents. 

Orodon had done all he could for the children. His thoughts returned to his other task. _Where,_ he asked of the unknown third Weapon, _are you?_

OoOoOo

Finnin hesitated only long enough to exchange an anticipatory smirk with Ragan.

By Mahal, he was going to enjoy this. Since the day he’d heard what had been done to his lass, he’d hungered for a target upon whom to unleash his wrath. Fate was kind, indeed, to place Finnin and his friend where that might happen.

Barhador and his Rangers had scarcely lost their footing when Finnin dumped his captives and charged. _“Baruk Khazâd!”_ he roared. He leaped over red-headed Anuon, battle ax swinging to drive the Weapons converging on the Ranger back a space. 

_“Khazâd ai-mênu!”_ Ragan landed before Barhador and Thalon.

Finnin’s blood fired with the exultation of battle. His first target’s eyes rounded upon sight of his new foe. What the Weapon thought, Finnin would never know, for before the man could regain his footing—affected by the same foul sorcery as the Dunedain—Finnin’s ax smashed through the tall man’s defenses and lodged in the man’s chest. Only when Finnin jerked his weapon free did the body flop to the ground like the refuse it was. 

“Find the Arcanist,” Finnin shouted in Khuzdul. If Ragan answered, Finnin did not hear it as no less than four blades came at him from different directions.

Finnin purred in enjoyment. Outnumber or not, he thrilled in this. He dodged the first two blades thrust at him— _I’ll thank you for readying me for this when next we meet, Bâhzundushuh._ (My raven.) His heart clenched at thought of her. _Live, my bonny Saldís. For me._

The third blade arced from his right, and Finnin batted it aside with his ax with such force it near decapitated another Weapon. The fourth blade dug into the leather bracer upon his left arm, parting it and slicing into his flesh. 

He hissed at the sudden pain but didn’t pause. He ducked under the return swing and slammed one booted foot into the Weapon’s knee with enough might to snap it. 

There was no room for coddling his own paltry injury. Finnin changed his grip on the ax to one hand and quickly drew a second weapon—a long, slender dirk—in time to counter another flurry of attacks. He blocked blades from both sides, then ducked yet again to allow a curved sword to sweep past and threaten a Weapon to his right. 

There was no speaking, no cries of pain among the Weapons. As his Saldís had warned, the Black Númenóreans fought in absolute silence.

Finnin utilized every trick that had taken Saldís aback in the sparring ring. He kicked up loose shale, aiming it towards exposed eyes. He coordinated with Ragan, switching positions without warning—by Durin, did these Weapons never learn how to work together?—and more than once, Finnin leaped on and off terrace banisters and empty, dwarf-sized stone pots. 

He moved, and he kept moving.

Finnin blocked two more simultaneous strikes, dodged another, then he sank fast onto his heels as a curved sword threatened to lob his head off. 

Mayhap, he granted, he should not be quite so cocky, but by his beard, he’d rarely been so challenged, and too, it felt good to be doing something towards reaching his lass’s goal. Exhilaration sizzled through his veins. 

A heartbeat later, one of the Rangers materialized at his left—black-haired Thalon, Finnin identified based upon the massive sword the man wielded. The pressure upon Finnin’s defenses eased. 

“Looked like you could use a hand,” the man said over the din. 

“Don’t you be believing that. These Weapons are so feeble, I could take them single-handedly,” Finnin boasted with a grin, knowing it would prick his enemy’s pride.

Based upon the sudden surge his way, the Black Númenóreans had no liking for his jest. Finnin smirked. _No sense of humor._ Well, he’d not expected any different. 

“With comments like that, you’ll be lucky to keep your head,” Ragan growled as he thrust his way to Finnin’s other side.

Finnin had another choice comment to share, but a fireball suddenly shot into their midst, putting an abrupt end to banter. A short, pained cry sounded from the direction of the fireball’s trajectory, and Finnin’s muscles tensed.

Finnin’s enjoyment of the skirmish ended then and there, and a deadly seriousness claimed him. These Black Númenóreans would pay for that. 

Finnin pressed forward, battle ax swinging towards one Weapon. When the woman blocked it with difficulty, Finnin changed the strike. He shoved the ax forward with all his strength, smashing the top edge into her face. She died ere she could dodge.

Barhador fought his way into view, his face tight and clothes smoldering. 

_I’m guessing I need not ask who took the Arcanist’s blow,_ Finnin thought. “You’re well?” he hollered over the ruckus, sucking in his belly when a blade snuck past his ax and threatened to gut him. It did, he growled to note, shorten his beard by a few inches. 

“Well enough to finish this,” the Ranger shouted in return. Then in a sudden shift, the man spat, _“Rhaich!_ The Arcanist has vanished.”

There were times, Finnin groused, that being shorter than all of one’s enemies was a mite inconvenient. He’d not even caught glimpse of the man. 

_Naught to be done._ If the Arcanist had made himself invisible, Finnin could do nothing about it. 

The battle intensified, and talk ceased. Finnin exchanged a series of lightning quick slashes with a dainty Weapon. The lass attempted one of his Saldís’s favorite tricks, luring him to strike at her right side. It might have worked—well, mayhap—on another dwarf, but fighting against a Weapon was second nature to him.

Aye, _he’d_ faced Ib-Akhora. This Weapon could not hope to compare. 

That advantage cost the Weapon before him her life. Instead of slicing at her as she intended, his leg whipped out, hooked her ankle and yanked her off balance. A downward sweep with his ax, and there was one less Weapon in the world.

Trained, these Weapons were, and deadly, but it was plain they’d never faced foes with a dwarf’s strength. Combined with the Rangers’ dexterity, it spelled the Black Númenóreans’ defeat. 

Slowly, the Black Company brought down their foes, and not without cost. Finnin sustained a gash across his left thigh. Ragan, when Finnin caught glimpse of his friend, had a bleeding wound across his forehead. Medlinor’s quicksilver grace had become painfully awkward jabs, and by the way Thalon limped, something had happened to the Ranger’s right foot. 

Six Weapons remained…then five…four…

When only two Weapons fought on—even surrounded as they were by the Black Company, they did not yield—Barhador pulled Finnin from the fight. “With me,” the Ranger said softly near his ear. “We must find that Arcanist.”

Finnin nodded once. When Barhador sprinted down the deserted street, the Ranger’s face pinched with pain, Finnin was but a step behind him.

OoOoOo

“We’ve no choice,” Kyri said, his long face full of sadness belied by his twinkling brown eyes.

“Nay, we don’t,” Nori agreed with equally false regret. “There’s nothing for it lad.” He set the big keg o’ truly fine ale (if he did say so himself) down on its rotund side. They’d pilfered the ale from a busy establishment right under Corsair noses. Aye, a bit of whimsy, but Nori had thrilled in the risk. “Ye got a flint?”

At Kyri’s short nod and quick grin, Nori uncorked the keg and stuffed a bit of fabric into the hole. He eyed their target and pushed the keg into position upon a slight rise in the street. There, Nori frowned, worry climbing at the swarming mob o’ pirates surrounding The Brothers.

“Do ye think we should warn the lads?” Kyri asked, hefting his flint. The brown-haired dwarf glowered at the scene arrayed beneath their position, his humor fleeing, too. 

Nori knew a good idea when he heard it. With two fingers between his lips, Nori issued a piercing whistle. Not one Corsair looked up, but Nori saw Calenor’s head tilt his way.

“Light it,” Nori said. His urgency grew upon noting how slowly the youngest of The Brothers moved. _Foundered at best._ He hoped it was nothing serious.

Kyri lit their makeshift fuse, and Nori pushed the keg off with grim humor. “First time I’ve returned what I filched,” he told Kyri. “Dori would be proud.” 

In unison, the two dwarves hefted their weapons and raced after the barrel. At first, nothing much seemed to happen as it rolled along its merry way. 

But then the flame reached the spigot. Instead of exploding as Nori half expected, the keg instead burst into flame, dribbling burning fluid with each rotation. 

The few Corsairs to realize their peril did so far too late. The molten keg plowed into the Corsair ranks. ‘Twas then the wooden frame gave way, and burning ale spread out from it in a flaming sea.

Men screamed, and Nori gaped to see what his little trap had netted. There, thrashing about with flames spreading over his body, was a Weapon. 

Kyri’s hard nudge roused him from his preening moment. The two hurried after Corsairs scrambling to escape. It seemed the pirates had completely forgotten The Brothers in the face of this new danger.

With matching smirks, Kyri and Nori fell on the survivors, thwacking on the head those fleeing and cutting down the few who dared lift arms against them. When the closest of them were dealt with, they chased after the others. 

_Mayhap not the best of ideas,_ Nori granted, his pride of heartbeats before deflating. The Corsairs who had fled would have to be hunted down, and that would take valuable time…

_Or mayhap not._ Nori grinned and lifted his blade in salute as Ranger Orodon strutted—aye, strutted—into view, herding over a dozen soot-covered Corsairs before him with a cocky grin. “Lose something, Master Dwarf?”

Nori’s head tilted to one side as he tossed the man a grin. “Misplaced. Temporarily. Got myself something of yours though,” he said, pointing with his blade to where the Weapon had collapsed.

The Ranger’s eyebrows rose, and a grin flashed. “Nicely done, my friend. That is the last of the three.”

Nori bowed with a flourish. (Mahal, was he becoming Bofur?) Shaking the disturbing thought from his head, he left the prisoners to Orodon and headed for The Brothers, stepping over bodies a wee bit too reminiscent of Smaug’s attack for his liking. 

Berenor gifted him with a tired smile. “I thought the idea was to keep this quiet.”

Nori joined Erynor and Kyri in bending over Calenor’s seated form. He snorted. “You lads already had them riled up.” Then with a slight smirk, “Besides, this? This is nothing. When our task is done, you must visit our halls. We’ll have ourselves a proper dwarvish celebration. Now _those_ are loud.”

Nori assured himself that Calenor was in no immediate danger. As he’d feared, the lad had sustained a hobbling injury. The tendons of one leg had been slashed quite nicely. Like as not, the lad couldn’t run if his life depended upon it, but he would recover.

Especially with a bit of elvish aid.

Nori next turned to Berenor. “We’d best help Orodon tie up the survivors and get them to the Vengeance.”

OoOoOo

Dís held up her free hand, and all attacks from the Vengeance and her small contingent stuttered to a halt. Many of the Corsairs retreated a few steps, weapons dipping. Those more taken with battle fury took a mite longer to realize they did so alone. Then they, too, retreated.

Pinched between herself, Goira, Dár, and the late arrivals—Hlein and Kai—on one end and Captain Gaearon’s crew on the other, she supposed it was no surprise most were losing the will to continue fighting. The dwarves and elves had struck hard and fast, and the men were clearly outmatched. 

Past their prime, most of them, and a number were lamed, too. Dís was disgusted that the Captain of the Haven had left them so poorly defended. What leader neglected the safety of his people? 

Tempting, indeed, to feel pity for these wretches, but knowledge of just what transpired in this port regularly squelched it. These, old or not, had if not participated, then at least done nothing to halt slavery, murder, and rape. 

They did not deserve the mercy they were receiving. Not at all. 

“Surrender,” she shouted. “Surrender, and by Durin, you will live.”

One brave soul shambled forward, a gray-haired, bent woman with bloody dagger in one hand and a broken bottle in the other. Dís’s gaze focused upon the dagger. Just who had the woman managed to wound? 

“Why should we believe you?” the Corsair woman hissed.

Dís took one step forward, cognizant of Hlein pacing her. Dís sniffled. The last Durin? Falling to elderly Corsairs? She thought not. “What choice have you?” she asked harshly. 

The old woman spat to the side. Eyes burning with dark hostility, she said, “None.”

Dís’s chin lowed as she leveled the woman with a steely glare. “That’s right. Choose. Do you die here tonight? Or do you drop your weapons?”

Dís was almost disappointed when a host of weapons clattered to the ground. 

With elves and dwarves working in conjunction, they soon had these Corsairs, too, trundled up and piled with little gentleness upon their fellows inside the Vengeance’s hold. 

The slain, they weighed down with whatever could be found and tossed into the sea.

OoOoOo

Barhador hugged the shadows, the crunch of heavier footsteps telling him Finnin trailed close behind. One could wish the dwarf members of the Company were lighter on their feet, but Barhador let the slight irritation go. They were a stockier, hardier people, and while it had its negatives in terms of stealth, Barhador was grateful to have such companions. A dwarf’s strength was truly a thing to behold.

The grating _wrongness_ that Barhador had sensed on the Vengeance led him through the most decayed sections of the once-grand port city. East. Always east. The Arcanist headed not towards the sea but deeper landward. 

_You will not escape, sorcerer._ Barhador would never allow it. The Arcanist was an affront to Eru and the order of things. Unnatural. Perverse. 

The man’s presence was enough to cause Barhador’s skin to prickle in revulsion. That evil shroud that accompanied Baehzor was palpable, imbuing Barhador with the sense that should he turn his head just so, or perhaps squint in the right way, a black knot of Darkness itself would pop into view. It was that substantial to the Ranger’s senses.

The Arcanist’s route had been circuitous as he crisscrossed through streets that likely hadn’t seen inhabitation for centuries. Barhador hoped that meant the man was hiding his tracks and unaware he was being followed, but suddenly, Baehzor halted in the center of a crumbling courtyard. 

“No need to be shy, Vinuir,” Baehzor said in a darkly silky voice, his head turning to one side and bringing one eye into view. “Come out, come out,” he sang.

A nudge and nod from Finnin directed Barhador’s gaze to the rooftop opposite them. There, a striped gray cat perched, its tail wrapped around its body with the tip twitching. 

Barhador cursed himself. He should have brought Anuon. The archer’s bow would have alerted the Arcanist to their presence, but it also would have robbed him of eyes. 

With sword at the ready, Barhador left the deep shadows and stepped into the open, aware of Finnin keeping pace. 

“Dwarves,” the Arcanist sneered. “What game are you playing, Vinuir? Allying with our enemies?”

Barhador straightened to his full height, chin lifted and shoulders thrown back proudly. “You have betrayed your lineage.” A trace of confusion moved in the Arcanist’s eyes. Barhador was only too happy to enlighten him. “You are wrong in your conclusions, Sangahyando,” Barhador said. “I’m no Black Númenórean.”

The Arcanist’s eyes narrowed.

Barhador smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. Ranger Barhador of the Dunedain. And I have come that justice might be served upon you.”

OoOoOo

Baehzor’s body stilled. His mind raced. The earrings this “Barhador” wore said the man lied, but the ringing note of truth proclaimed otherwise. The Dunedain. In their lands. _By the Eye._

So. Their distant kin had uncovered their existence. Baehzor delayed, using words to stall as he silently summoned tools to see this enemy dead. He would take no chances. 

Exaltation filled him. Discovering this plot would gain him much, perhaps even Ib-Valkthor’s own position.

“You are too late, Dunedain,” he hissed with pleasure. “The Dark Lord marches…soon. Even now, Isengard prepares to unleash its army upon the pathetic horse people of Rohan.” Then with feigned surprise. “Oh, did you not know of Saruman’s betrayal?” He clucked his tongue. “How sad.”

Discarding the needling tone, he said, “You are too late, and now you tip your hand. You will die today. Know your kin will soon follow. Your women’s bellies will fill with our children.”

He struck without warning. Swarms of beetles, simple-minded creatures easy to control, skittered from the shadows to scurry over both Ranger and dwarf, biting into their flesh. Both reacted as anticipated, slapping at the things and finding them too numerous to be so easily dealt with.

Baehzor cackled silently at the dwarf’s bellow of fury, then the Arcanist threw himself to the side as a dagger sliced through the air where he’d just been. _Dunedain,_ he spat. Concentration lost, the beetles’ assault halted…and remained that way as the Ranger struck. 

Baehzor rolled as the Dunedain’s sword slashed downward where he’d been a split second before. The blade scraped against crumbled road. 

Baehzor kicked at the man’s feet. When the Ranger danced around the attempt, Baehzor managed to latch onto one ankle with his left hand and yank the man’s feet out from under him. Down the Ranger went.

The Arcanist jumped to his feet, blade arcing downward before completely upright. Only the dwarf’s ax prevented him from ending the Ranger on the spot. 

Baehzor glared and unleashed a burst of air at the beetle-dotted dwarf, enough to send the runt crashing into the wall behind him. The maneuver was costly. A tendril of lightheadedness stole over him. 

He ignored it. With a flick of the wrist, he sent a weighted knife after the dwarf. 

The dwarf’s eyes flared. His overgrown ax barely deflected the blade in time. 

Baehzor gnashed his teeth, frustration rising. 

The Ranger closed with him. Sword met sword in a flurry of exchanges. Baehzor used every trick drilled into him by the Hands and years of fighting Weapons and enemies. The Ranger countered each. 

Just how, he suddenly wondered, had the Rangers discovered his people’s existence? A suspicion raised its head. Could there be a traitor? “Who?” he growled, delaying in his next surprise in favor of gleaning this important information. The Duumvirate would demand this very answer. “Who told you of us? Who taught you our ways?”

The Ranger’s eyes filled with vindication. “Your fate was sealed the moment you touched one of ours,” he said. A sudden jab with a knife Baehzor hadn’t seen. The Arcanist hissed, agonizing pain flaring from his hip as the blade punched through skin and muscle deep into his flesh.

“This,” the Ranger growled, “is for Saldís. Akhora,” he clarified. “And every other daughter and son you twisted to serve our enemy.”

Akhora. Shock gonged in the recesses of his mind. The Duumvirate would hear of this. Akhora, when they found her, would rue the day she’d first drawn breath.

Baehzor gestured, summoning a ball of intense fire that forced the Ranger to scramble backwards. The Arcanist then had to contort his body to dodge an arrow originating from the rooftop. A flick of his attention. More Rangers arrived, he registered through the cat’s eyes. 

_Time to end this._ Baehzor stretched the orb of flame into a shielding wall, sweating from both the intense heat pouring off of it and the monumental effort required to maintain it. By Sauron’s flaming Eye, he’d be drained from this. 

But these Dunedain would die. And their dwarf pet.

Yet before he could project the fiery wall into their midst, the dwarf leaped through the fire. Baehzor’s eyes widened as a big booted foot slammed into his belly, sending him sprawling on his back. An ax came crashing down, and that was the last thing Baehzor knew.

OoOoOo

Finnin slapped out the flames on his clothes and beard with his hands, one side of his mouth curled in disgust.

“Are you injured, Master Dwarf?” Anuon asked as he leapt down from the roof with a pained grimace. Blood coated the Ranger’s left shoulder. 

Finnin snorted. “A bit crisped,” he said. “This was naught more than I might have experienced in the forge. Dwarflings are prone to such accidents.”

The red-headed Ranger’s lips spread in a slow grin. “I’d read Lord Aulë’s children were less at the mercy of the elements,” he said. “Truly, you are a hardy people.”

Finnin finished slapping out the embers on himself before turning a wry smile the Ranger’s way. “With the exception of the sea,” he returned dryly. Reaching down with one hand, he yanked his ax free from where it had lodged in the stone pavement beneath the Arcanist’s neck. “I’m thinking it’s a good thing our foes here have no experience fighting Durin’s folk.”

“Indeed,” Barhador said as the Ranger stepped to Finnin’s side, his gaze upon the Arcanist’s body. “One thing has been made plain this day.” The man’s eyes blazed with triumph as they met Finnin’s. “Their arrogance will doom them.”

OoOoOo

Dawn painted the eastern sky in pinks and purples as Captain Gaearon and his crew watched from sea, each of the elves facing Umbar’s distant silhouette. Working together with the dwarves and Rangers, the elves had helped the Black Company clear the city of every last resident—from Corsairs to prostitutes, gamblers to the handful of Rohirrim discovered kept as slaves.

All but the Rohirrim were stashed in the hold, packed in like fish in a tight net. The former slaves sat near the prow, their faces so fearful in their hope that it hurt Gaearon’s heart to look upon them. 

The Black Vengeance swayed underfoot, and Gaearon waited. The ship would not progress any farther from Umbar until he knew the last piece of the dwarf Nori’s plan had been completed. 

Sudden explosions shattered the quiet. Fire lit the sky in brief bursts as each of Umbar’s ancient stone piers was destroyed. Piers that had survived untold centuries crumbled and splashed beneath the waves. 

A small smile curled Gaearon’s lips. _I do hope you know what you are doing, Mithrandir, in sharing your “fire-powder” with that dwarf._

This trip had given Gaearon much hope on that count. His eyes were opened. These dwarves were nothing like he’d anticipated. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could be entrusted with such a weapon. 

Gaearon had no doubts where the Lady Dís was concerned. The dam was impressive. Stubborn and honorable. Whatever weakness resided in her line, the elf thought the dam untainted by it. Truly, it was a shame her lineage would end with her.

When the explosions halted, Gaearon exhaled with satisfaction. Umbar was done. Her docks were no more, and her surviving citizens would soon find themselves deposited upon an island just north of Corsair-dominated seas. The small island had water and game to support life, but little more. No ships sailed there. No one lived there. 

_Yet._

Dry amusement filled him. He was certain Lord Círdan would agree to keep watch over the island to ensure none of their prisoners ever departed it. 

If the Corsairs in Pelargir encountered defeat— _Eru grant it be so_ —this would be the end of the pirates’ reign of terror. Prince Imrahil would be glad to know it. 

“We head north,” Gaearon informed his crew as he took the wheel. His part in the Black Company’s quest was over.


	33. Capture

_**Umbar  
15 February TA 3019** _

Ib-Valkthor stood upon the crumbled lip of the street that had once led to Umbar’s docks, so consumed by shock and icy fear that he could barely process what he saw. 

Umbar. Empty. Her ports obliterated. Other than a few scorch marks marring the surface of the single pier support jutting above the sea’s surface, there was no sign of what had occurred here. 

Umbar was empty. 

At his side, He-Lohnan stood equally silent. Loudly so.

This, Valkthor thought, was bad. Just how bad remained to be seen, but his mind filled with images of the Mouth, and icy pinpricks danced up and down his spine. Akhora had lost her command because an invading force had overcome the Corsairs. She’d been present, lifting her blade in Umbar’s defense, and still she’d almost been thrown into the Den. 

Valkthor’s plight…was worse. That he’d been away on House business would not matter in the least. Umbar had fallen, and Valkthor had not fallen with it.

“Get into the water,” he abruptly commanded, fear vanquished by a thundering fury. He’d told the Captain of the Haven to leave Umber better protected. Had the fool but listened, this would not have happened. “I need to know if House Vinuir’s ship was sunk, too.” 

He did not await an answer. Valkthor swiveled on one heel and stormed back through Umbar’s empty streets. All around, he saw evidence that the city had been emptied in haste. Food lay half picked over on plates swarming with bugs. Mugs of beer and bottles of harder liquor sat abandoned upon tables. 

The drunkards here might leave a meal unfinished, but alcohol? Never. 

What in blazes had happened? If an enemy had struck, an occupying force would remain. The whores would be here. He gritted his teeth, tempted to violence. If the Sauron-be-damned Gondorians had struck, they’d never have departed, leaving Umbar to be reclaimed!

Was this some game of House Vinuir’s? 

As soon as the notion occurred to him, he dismissed it. Vinuir would never dare weakening their allies on the eve of war. Again, the Mouth’s image filled his mind. No Black Númenórean would. 

Sweat pebbled his forehead and dampened his palms upon entering the warehouse slated to house Vinuir’s prize. Hot sun was replaced by cool shade. Though his eyes had not yet adjusted to the change in lighting, he didn’t fail to note the obvious. The kernel of terror he’d harbored since first entering Umbar’s empty streets grew larger. The warehouse’s stored wealth remained undisturbed. 

_Not Gondorians. Not a rogue faction of pirates._ What type of fool would conquer Umbar…and not steal its wealth? It was as if some Power had simply erased Umbar’s residents, taking the docks with them.

He tore through the untidy rows of stored goods, shoving crates from his path and wrenching open anything that appeared promising. Desperation grew, and with it, low, panicky sounds escaped from his throat. 

They had to be here. A tremor claimed his hands. He ripped open containers with abandon, panting. _This cannot be happening._ His teeth clenched. _This cannot be happening!_

In the end, Valkthor stumbled from the warehouse, filthy with grime and perspiration. Vinuir’s cargo was gone. He sank down onto a crumbling stone bench, eyes blank and jaw tight. His mind filled with images of himself on an altar. 

Ar-Tagan would skin him alive… _if_ he was lucky. He’d once seen the Arcanist do just that, using his magics to keep the victim alive for days. Though horrifying, that bit of torture paled when compared to what Tagan could do to his victims. 

Valkthor gulped for air, mouth dry. The jaws of this trap closed around him. There had to be a way to fix this. There had to—

“Ib-Valkthor,” He-Lohnan intruded. 

Valkthor’s eyes slowly lifted. Anger surged that this paltry Weapon had witnessed his panic. “Yes?”

Uneasiness filled the Weapon’s eyes. A plan suddenly popped into Valkthor’s mind, one that might perhaps see him spared. Lohnan’s fingertips grazed the hilt of his scimitar, but the fool did not flee as he should have. 

Not that fleeing would have aided him.

“What did you find?” Valkthor demanded coolly, once more in command of himself. 

Lohnan answered after a long, searching look. “There is no sign of a ship such as Baehzor described. House Vinuir’s ship must have departed before Umbar’s doom arrived.” 

_Good._ Valkthor’s plan had a chance, then. He struck without warning, unleashing his arcane arts with an outstretched hand and short chant. 

Lohnan charged, drawing his sword, but by his third step, the blade clattered from his fingers. The Weapon choked, eyes and mouth wide. As Valkthor reeled from the expenditure, weakness stealing over him, Lohnan’s body fell to the pavement, his chest a smoldering wreck. 

“My apologies, Lohnan, but I cannot permit witnesses. You understand,” he panted at the smoking body. 

Fingers trembling as the cost of his magics punched him in full, Valkthor slipped one precious vial of blood from his trousers. An Arcanist’s currency. It held but two swallows of red liquid inside. 

It must suffice. Valkthor’s supply was limited. He could not waste a drop. 

He thumbed off the cork and downed the contents in one swig. A rush of vitality pushed out the fatigue. Stolen life. A delectable thing. He’d make better use of it than the wretched, nameless worm who’d unwillingly donated it.

Rejuvenated, he rose to his feet with easy grace. Without a second glance at the Weapon, he raced for Umbar’s stables to reclaim his _emala._ Speed was of the essence.

OoOoOo

__  
**23 February TA 3019  
Harondor**

Thannor squatted, fingers ghosting over a depression in the sand just beyond the sea’s reach. The Vengeance’s mast rested mere feet away. 

He squinted up at the sun, mind churning. Two had been here. A man and a woman, as best he could discern. Of the woman, there was ample proof of her gender, and the more he read of her upon the sands, the more the blood sizzled through his veins. 

Saldís. It had to be. Though the other person had come to this site by land, the woman had arrived with the Vengeance’s mast. He could imagine no other woman washing ashore, much less having been in the vicinity to grab hold of it.

Which begged the question: who was the other individual? Thannor rubbed his jaw, scrutinizing one of the few traces the man had left behind with rising worry. By Eru, the man was elusive. His was not the track of a hard, Gondorian boot, nor akin to what a Dunedain or dwarf would leave. No, these were softer. Intentionally obscured. 

Frowning, his attention returned to the woman. Though his gut insisted it was Saldís, Thannor needed proof. 

The sun climbed high, and the Ranger continued his search. Following the nearly nonexistent path left by the unknown male— _He carried her from the scene,_ Thannor concluded—Thannor discovered a camp tucked away in the oasis abutting the shore.

_They remained here for a time._ Vegetation was disturbed in two distinct areas where they would have slept, and though the fire pit had been dismantled to hide its existence, a smattering of ashes lingered in the center of the tree- and frond-shrouded place. 

Thannor’s attention honed in on another sign left not far from the ashes: herbs. He fingered the desiccated remains. _Not local._ More than one herb was unfamiliar to him, but two he knew for a fact grew only in cold, mountainous regions. Bringing a pinch to his nostrils, he crushed and sniffed them. The astringent odor hinted at medicinal attributes. 

As he painstakingly scoured the scene, more was found. A few long strands of black hair snagged on a fan-shaped frond. The full outline of a slender hand captured by the soil. And the final piece: an indentation in the ground of what had to have been the pendant his cousin wore about her neck, a pendant not discovered among Saldís’s shredded belongings aboard the Swan in Flight. 

It was the proof he’d needed. No doubt remained. Saldís lived. 

He sank onto his heels, exhaling in relief. Bifur would be elated. _Finnin as well,_ he thought with a slight smile. It hadn’t escaped the Ranger’s notice how the blond watched Thannor’s cousin. How Thannor’s younger children would delight if that pairing came about. Rare, indeed, to meet a dwarf, much less have the opportunity to regularly converse with one. 

Thannor’s head lifted, and he scanned beyond the camp. Who was with her? Friend or foe? Of the man, Thannor could discern frightfully little. Careful with his footsteps, that one. Extraordinarily so. The type of awareness he displayed was not natural. It took years to learn—he should know having been the recipient of such lessons since early childhood.

Brushing his hands together to free them of dirt, he stood tall. Time to determine where the two had gone. 

The answer, he located within minutes, was south. Thannor’s brow creased. Saldís would not willingly leave her sire to worry. Had some Haradrim claimed her? With one hand wrapped around his bow, he loped out of the mess of palm trees back to his horse. 

Indecision flared. Go after her and send word to Bifur using the messenger bird provided by Imrahil, or return for the dwarf before tracking Saldís farther? By Eru, he could not afford the lost time, but if he sent word as he must, the three dwarves would follow him into Haradrim lands. The Ranger could pass disguised as a Black Númenórean, but dwarves? 

_They would be found out and imprisoned._ Thannor swiped one hand down his faced. His cousin would murder him if he permitted that to happen. _If_ she survived whomever had her. 

_Do what is necessary._ Halbarad’s frequent admonition. 

So. Thannor’s course was set. He swiftly penned a missive to the dwarves: _Saldís in Haradrim lands. I go to retrieve her. Meet up with Black Company. -Thannor._ Praying he was not misleading Bifur by giving him false hope, Thannor loosed the small hawk. 

He next tore into his saddlebags, pulling free the black garb Dori had crafted him. He shucked his clothes there on the beach and donned his disguise. 

By his best guess, Saldís and her escort had departed here five days ago. With luck, the pair would be slowed by her condition. She was bound to be exhausted and hampered by her injuries.

Thannor mounted the desert-bred bay from Dol Amroth’s stables and hissed it into a ground-eating canter. _“Asca,”_ he urged his mount in Sindarin. “Haste, my friend.”

OoOoOo

__  
**25 February TA 3019  
Dol Amroth**

Bifur leaned against a smooth stone banister edging the balcony to the suite of rooms he shared with Dori and Bofur within Prince Imrahil’s palace. His fingers counted the beads within his daughter’s second braid, one by one, finding comfort in the action—an action that had become rote over the last weeks. 

There was not a cloud in the sky this day, but even had there been, he would not have abandoned his vigil. Should one of Imrahil’s scouts or messengers returned in haste, or the Ranger Thannor, he intended to know about it. The teams aiding the Company to search for Saldís had returned days before, all but Thannor. The Ranger had left word before the dwarves had returned to Dol Amroth that he intended to scour Harondor’s shores, too. 

Against his wishes, Bifur had been argued out of following after the Ranger. ‘Twas Dori who pointed out that if Bifur was far afield when word came, it would delay his reunion with his daughter. Given the injuries inflicted on his lass, Bifur had listened.

Had he done right? Imrahil had sent messengers throughout his lands. Aye, their main purpose was to share news of Mordor and offer sanctuary within Dol Amroth to any who wished it, but they also informed the Gondorians to be on the lookout for a woman with a strange scar on her left hand and the dreaded red earrings in her ear. If Saldís washed ashore within his domain, Imrahil claimed he would hear of it.

The smart, rapid clip of boots pulled his attention from the vista just as Imrahil’s son, Elphir, jogged up the curving stone stairs leading to Bifur’s terrace. “Master Bifur,” the man said.

He needn’t say more. Bifur read the tension on Elphir’s face—aye, and heard it in his voice. Bifur kicked back urgently, waking Bofur from where he lounged across an elvish-looking seat with hat shielding his eyes. By Mahal, he needed his cousin to ask the questions.

Bofur jerked upright, hat flopping into his lap. “Eh? What?”

“They’ve news,” Bifur said shortly in Khuzdul. “You must ask. Is she…?”

Bofur was on his feet in a flash, shoulder bumping into Bifur’s. “She’s found?” he demanded of Elphir.

The dark-haired man handed over a piece of parchment somberly. “This just arrived by hawk. It is from Ranger Thannor.”

Bifur snatched the paper out of Bofur’s hands, fingers crinkling the edges as he scanned the words at a furious pace. Bofur read from over his shoulder. 

His Saldís was in Haradrim lands? Why? Thannor wrote that he was heading to retrieve her—retrieve her from whom? “She’s been taken?” he managed, anger and alarm flooding through his veins. 

“One thing I’ll say about our Rangers. They’re as tight lipped as an elf,” Bofur said with a cutting edge to his voice. On his face, Bifur read a matching anger. “We’re not actually going to listen to him, are we?” Bofur asked.

_Meet up with Black Company,_ the Ranger had written. Bifur growled beneath his breath, pained at this turn of events. “What choice do we have?” he asked with frustration. “Unless you’ve suddenly mastered the art of tracking so well as to follow after a Ranger?”

Bofur’s lips parted, but no words emerged. Disgruntlement and worry flashed in his eyes and etched lines across Bofur’s forehead. 

Bifur liked this no better than he. He drew his cousin’s head to his own. “If I’ve not said the words of late, let me say them now. There is no truer brother in all the dwarf kingdoms than you’ve been to me, Bofur.”

Surprise was followed by cocky smile belied by the way Bofur’s eyes teared up. “Well now…”

“Don’t ruin it,” Bifur groused, clapping him on the shoulder. Then in a voice dripping with his own grief and pain, “The Maker knows I wish to follow after, too. But the Haradrim lands are vast. Easier to search Erebor’s treasury for a specific coin.” He took a shaky breath, heart aching to trust another with his daughter’s well being. 

Bofur hugged him tight for one long moment. Then drawing back, he placed his hands on Bifur’s shoulders. Cousin stared at cousin, each seeing in the other’s face growing acceptance and resolve. In unison, they turned to Elphir. 

Bofur cleared his throat. “If’n ye don’t mind, we’ll be needing another favor.”

Imrahil’s heir had waited patiently, a fact Bifur appreciated. With a dip of the head, the man said, “My father has already ordered our swiftest ship equipped.” A pause. “You do know there is danger in this? The Corsair patrols from Pelargir have intensified. There is a chance they are aware of what occurred in Umbar.”

Bifur grunted and nodded.

Bofur tugged upon one earlobe. “Aye, and we’re not forgetting it. But for your people as well as our own, Saldís must be of a mind to be of use in Tovennen. She’ll be needing her sire.”

Elphir’s hand tapped against his sword hilt, his expression pensive. “So we assumed. We would not risk a crew of our people on a whim.”

Nay, they wouldn’t. Bifur stepped closer to the man and placed a hand on his arm. Meeting his eyes, Bifur placed one fist to his heart in a salute. 

“Truly,” Elphir said, “we have been complacent and blind to permit the old alliances to die.” His gaze lifted to include Bofur. “Should we live to see the end of Mordor’s stench, I intend to rectify that.”

Bofur joined Bifur and said, “Aye. That goes for the both of us.”

The cousins raced into their quarters to collect Dori and gather their things. Before the sun set, the three dwarves, a small crew of men, and the White Arrow—an alarmingly small ship to Bifur’s mind—were racing across the sea towards Umbar.

But they never reached it. Corsair ships closed in around them soon after the sun had set. Though the captain did his utmost to outmaneuver the larger vessels, in the end, they were boarded and chained. 

Bifur longed to shout his fury to the heavens. As he and the others from the Arrow were shoved into a smelly hold aboard the Corsair ship amid much jeering, his eyes closed. 

Mahal. How could he be reunited with his daughter now?


	34. Tovennen

_**Far Harad  
28 February TA 3019** _

Thannor slumped in his saddle. Then he pawed at his face, growling under his breath.

He didn’t understand it. He should have caught up with Saldís and her mysterious companion by now. It was not arrogance to state a Dunedain had superior stamina. Rangers could travel vast distances on less rest and less sustenance than common man. With Thannor mounted and the pair on foot, catching them should have proved simple.

Should have. 

No matter how Thannor pressed himself and his mount, he did not gain on them. Instead, he lost ground, falling ever farther behind. It defied belief. 

The man was to blame. Somehow, he gave himself and Thannor’s cousin unnatural speed. If not for the faint tracks left behind, Thannor would have doubted his own conclusions, but the proof was written upon the Haradrim sands. 

The horse beneath him exhaled gustily, his neck drooping. Thannor reached forward to deliver a commiserating pat. 

The tracks had led into enemy lands as he’d anticipated, but they skirted the Haradrim. Every time the duo’s path intersected the Easterlings’, the two took pains to slip by unseen. 

_He is not a Haradrim,_ Thannor had been forced to conclude. _Nor is he a Gondorian or Corsair._ So who in blazes was he? More to the point, what was he? 

Thannor rubbed grit from his eyes. The tracks he followed thus far had been a straight shot towards Black Númenórean lands. Should they hold to their current pace, the two would arrive in Caeldor soon.

If they were not there already. 

His lips flattened. If the unknown male proved to be a Black Númenórean as Thannor was coming to fear—an Arcanist—he’d have a surprise when he reached home. The Black Company would be waiting. _Eru let them spy the pair before they enter Caeldor._

If not…

He dashed the gloomy speculations from mind. Tracking cost him time, and he was certain by now it was unnecessary. He knew his destination. 

Kicking the horse into a canter, he abandoned any further attempts to read the pair’s progress. Now, he had one goal: to reach his father. Fast.

OoOoOo

****  
_5 March TA 3019  
Pelargir_

Bifur sank to a seat on the cold, stone ground, accepting the futility of further struggles. While his cousin looked nowhere near ready to do the same—glaring all around them, he was, as if some boon source of help was liable to suddenly appear—Dori slumped beside Bifur with a sigh. 

“Well. That’s that,” Dori said. 

Aye, so it was. 

Chained, the lot of them from the White Arrow, along with what looked to be the entire surviving male population of Pelargir that was not repairing Pelargir’s defenses under duress. Like Dol Amroth, ‘twas a skillfully wrought city, this port. Truly, it was a shame it had been brought so low as to end up in Corsair hands.

From beneath lowered eyebrows, Bifur studied his surroundings. All of the shackled men and dwarves were staked in lines in the center of a stone courtyard. There was no privacy in which to plan an escape or even talk. Their wardens had prohibited the use of Khuzdul, a decree with substance. Bifur had the bruised face to prove it. 

Less pressing but altogether galling, there was no privacy for a dwarf to use the privy, either. He scowled at the aromatic pit a handful of yards away serving as a crude latrine. If one wished to make use of it, his whole line of chained companions perforce had to join him.

Still, he’d experienced worse. Well did he remember the long weeks in Thranduil’s dungeons. There, the chance for escape had been slim but for one invisible hobbit. Here, escape would be difficult, aye, but it was possible. The Corsairs were an unruly lot. Not a speck of discipline among them to be seen. Sooner of later, they would make a mistake. 

Bifur scratched an itch on his chest idly, his heart aching with fear for his daughter. _Ye don’t ask much of a dwarf, do you, Mahal?_ Was she hurting? Was she safe? 

He would escape. To aid his daughter, he’d have to, so he would see it done. A sudden thought caused his lips to twitch the barest bit. _By Durin, Nori, you chose the wrong time to absent yourself._

Aye, a thief’s nimble fingers sure would be useful about now.

OoOoOo

__  
**The Fords of Isen  
6 March TA 3019**

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, listened to Halbarad with growing disbelief. The other Ranger wouldn’t lie to him, but Aragorn briefly wished he could believe the older man’s words untrue as he told a tale of ancient foes secreted away in the south. A lie would be preferable to what he was hearing now. 

The chieftain’s hand lifted, halting the flow of words. He faced the east, face chiseled as stone. _Mithrandir, you departed too soon._ There had been no alternative, not after the Nazgûl attack and Pippin’s actions. But by the Valar, he wished this news had arrived sooner. 

He turned until he found the one he sought. “Gimli.”

The dwarf’s boisterous banter with Legolas halted, and the red-head’s face turned his way, his expression a question. In the snapping light of the campfire before him, Gimli’s hair glowed a burnished copper.

Aragorn walked the short distance to join his friends, Halbarad silently trailing behind. 

Legolas’s keen eyes studied his face. “Something is amiss,” the light-haired elf stated without doubt.

“A great deal if the word that was brought to me proves true,” Aragorn said. To Halbarad, Aragorn murmured, “Would you ask your son to join us?”

“At once.” The older man bowed shortly and hurried away.

Aragorn squatted, one arm resting against the hilt of his sword. To Gimli, “More than once, you’ve told of the quest to reclaim Erebor.”

Merry shot a questioning glance between himself and Gimli, eyes bright with curiosity. Unlike Pippin, the more circumspect Merry chose to puff on his pipe, content to wait and listen.

“Aye,” Gimli said, brow creasing. 

“You told us about the members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” Aragorn said. “And you mentioned a dwarf named Bifur and the lost daughter he sought. Saldís, you named her.”

Gimli’s bushy brows climbed higher. “Aye. A daughter of men. Bifur, Bofur, and Nori found her alongside the road in the Lone Lands.” The dwarf grunted. “She was lost in her eighth year. Abducted, but she was never found.”

_So. That much of the tale is true._ Aragorn’s hand fisted, then relaxed. 

“You have reason to broach this topic,” Legolas interjected, expression intent.

More to Gimli than Legolas, Aragorn answered, inclining his head to Halros as the younger Ranger joined them, “Halros here was hunted down by a group of dwarves as he kept watch over the Shire.”

“Dwarves?” Merry sputtered, his grin flashing. “In the Shire again?” The hobbit’s smile faded. “Why do I get the feeling this wasn’t a happy event?”

“Because the reason for their visit was not social,” Aragorn told them. 

“What was it?” Gimli asked, eyes narrowing. “What does this have to do with Bifur and his lost daughter?”

Aragorn met his gaze somberly. “It seems she is kin of mine. She is descended from the Dunedain, and according to my kinsman, Halbarad, she was found in Dale not long ago.”

“But that is great news,” Gimli exclaimed. 

“Somehow, I don’t believe so, my friend,” Legolas said. 

“Halbarad tells me she was molded by enemies of ours from the day she was stolen. Now returned to your people,” Aragorn told Gimli, “she offered a window into our enemy’s actions.”

“That’s still good news,” Gimli grumbled with heavy suspicion, plainly waiting for—as his short friend would say—the ax to fall. 

At Aragorn’s gesture, Halros answered. “The dwarves who located me were led by a Lady Dís of Ered Luin. With her was a woman calling herself Saldís and a dwarf named Bifur.”

As his friends reacted with vary degrees of surprise, Aragorn continued, “The dwarves and woman ride with more of my kin to try to avert disaster. Their mission is to undermine and destroy an army of Black Númenóreans.”

The term meant nothing to Merry or Gimli, but Legolas inhaled in a hiss. Aragorn nodded. “It seems not all of them perished,” he told the elf. “It was they who stole Saldís.”

“Who are they?” Gimli demanded. 

“Of the same bloodline as the Dunedain,” Legolas told Gimli. “But turned to wickedness. Before Sauron’s defeat, they served him willingly.” The elf’s eyes glittered as they turned to Aragorn. “They practiced the black arts.”

“Sorcery?” Merry yelped, dropping his pipe. The small hobbit slapped out cinders that spilled onto his trousers, his eyes as wide as saucers. 

Aragorn was moved to compassion as he watched Gimli stiffen until he resembled rough-hewn stone. Gimli knew Lady Dís and the dwarf Bifur, just as Aragorn knew the Rangers marching beside them straight into enemy lands. 

Aragorn’s hands rubbed down his face. Those were his men. His kinsmen and his responsibility. _Tread safely, Barhador. The fate of us all may rest in your hands._ Hands dropping, he spoke in a soft voice, “When Sauron marches, he may have more than orcs filling his army.” 

Long into the night, the small group spoke. Aragorn discussed what they might encounter when Mordor unleashed its might, sharing tales of past sorcery, but Gimli sat nearby and peppered Halros with questions. From the little Aragorn overheard, the dwarf insisted that the younger Ranger describe each member of the team headed for Tovennen.

To Aragorn, it seemed as if the dwarf was bent upon proving Halros’s tale riddled with error, that the dwarves involved were not those he both knew and loved as kin, but in the end, Gimli’s questions petered out. The dwarf stared blankly into the fire. 

Merry and Legolas spoke to and around him, but Gimli remained quiet. 

Aragorn could not fault his friend. He, too, feared. For their loved ones. For those even now touched by the shadow of Mordor. For them all.

OoOoOo

_  
**Caeldor, Tovennen**  
_

Ten-year-old Zobi stalked after Ne-Zahmir, small scimitar clenched in his fist and chest shuddering with silent sobs. Darkness reigned as they left the vicinity of the barracks into the night-darkened, emptier parts of town.

They couldn’t take Hashad. The other boy was Zobi’s world. Born within weeks of each other, they’d been fast friends before becoming Novices. When the Hands had found out, they’d been so mad, they’d almost sent one of the boys to another House. Zobi and Hashad had faked a bad fight and pretended to hate each other ever since.

It wasn’t fair. They’d been good. Why, he hadn’t even talked to Hashad in…in…months! 

But he’d noticed how Hashad had begun to struggle. Unlike Zobi, Hashad fumbled to use his sword, and Zobi feared the Hands had lost patience with him. Was Zahmir going to kill him? 

The terror of that happening goaded him into rash action. He couldn’t let Zahmir reach his destination—what if there were other Arcanists waiting? With a low cry, he rushed at the two. _Crash!_ His sword met Zahmir’s. 

The Arcanist kicked Hashad to the ground before facing Zobi. “Ho-ho, what have we here? This does not concern you, Novice.”

“I won’t let you kill him,” Zobi said, bracing himself. A strand of brown hair flopped into his face. He blew it away, his focus never straying from his target. 

Zahmir smirked. “Is that so? Are you so eager to die, _mahebe,_ that you challenge _me?”_ The Arcanist stalked closer, and Zobi swallowed heavily. Behind Zahmir, Hashad was shaking his curly mop of black hair wildly, _no._

“You need to learn your place, Novice.” Zahmir’s booted foot lashed out, yanking Zobi’s from beneath him. The instant Zobi’s back slammed onto hard pavement, a hard kick plowed into his gut. Then another and another as Hashad yelled nearby. Zahmir growled, “You.” Kick. “Do.” Kick. “Not.” Kick. “Question!”

Zobi wheezed as he tried to scramble away, his belly hurting awful bad.

Hashad jumped on the Arcanist’s back, clawing and ripping the earrings from Zahmir’s earlobe. “Leave him alone!” Zobi's friend shouted. 

Zahmir roared. Whipping about at the waist, he grabbed Hashad and threw him into the nearest wall. Zobi moaned with hand to his belly as his friend collapsed. Then he watched, horrified as Zahmir lifted one hand into the air. 

It glowed blue. 

Zahmir was stealing Hashad’s air. He had to…he had to stop him! Zobi crawled to his sword, recalling all of Hand Faruvir’s lessons. But then he, too, gasped. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t br—

A black shadow separated itself from the darkness behind Zahmir, one shorter than the Arcanist. Zobi moaned, frantically trying to inhale as tears leaked down his face. He was gunna die. He and Hashad both.

But then, the stranger pulled a dagger from his waistband and struck Zahmir in the neck before the Arcanist realized he was there. The blade pulled free as Zahmir’s body fell to the ground, its length glistening with wet red blood.

Hashad tripped over his own feet, hurrying to Zobi’s side. Zobi blinked back tears. It wasn’t fair. By the Eye! Ar-Tagan made it clear the Arcanists were more important to his war plans than any Weapon or Novice. That this man had murdered one? 

_He can’t leave witnesses,_ Zobi thought with terror.

Zobi watched as the slender man bent over Zahmir’s body, wiping his dagger on Zahmir’s pants before returning it to its sheath. Though the man—Weapon?—was small, Zobi remained perfectly still, unwilling to draw his attention to where Zobi and Hashad huddled. 

With the standard black garb the man wore, especially with the headscarf over his face, he could be anyone. All that Zobi could see that set him apart was a blue marking beneath the man’s left eye. It looked like a rune to Zobi, but it sure wasn’t a language he knew. 

Suspicion touched him. Only Haradrim tattooed their bodies. No Black Númenórean would mar his face like that.

Then “he” spoke, and Zobi realized “he” was a “she”. “Return to your barracks,” she said in a soft voice. 

“You aren’t gunna kill us?” Hashad burst. 

The skin around her dark eyes—gray? brown?—crinkled. Zobi fidgeted, uncertain what that expression meant. “No. I’ve come to save you.”

“Save us?” Hashad echoed.

She tapped the mark beneath her eye. “Honor,” she told them.

Honor? What did Zobi care about any House’s honor? 

“Our loyalty is to one another,” she continued as if hearing his inner thoughts. “No House deserves it.”

Zobi almost scoffed aloud. Hashad had his sword, but Zobi knew full well they two were alone. Anyone else would turn on them in a heartbeat. Before his lips did more than part to say so, Hashad scowled at him. Grumbling, Zobi knew Hashad was right. The Weapon must be insane to spout off on things like _loyalty_ and _honor._ The last thing Zobi wished was to have her turn on him or Hashad. 

A sound down the street drew her head up. “Quiet,” she hissed.

She didn’t need to tell _him_ twice. Would the Hands blame Hashad and Zobi, too, for Zahmir’s death? _I don’t wanna die._

After a long stretch of silence, the woman hefted Zahmir’s body over her shoulder and stood. “Go. Now. You cannot be associated with this.”

The two boys glanced at one another. In Hashad’s eyes, Zobi read agreement. They ran. 

Neither heard the woman’s whispered, “This had better work, Adâd.”

OoOoOo

The next morning, House Herumor awoke to discover Arcanist Zahmir’s body splayed upon one of their altars. Commander Ib-Vollan raged, throwing accusations to the Arcanists of his House and railing at the inexperienced Weapons he’d assigned to keep watch during the night, but despite his attempts, he failed to locate the culprit.

His superior, Lord Kavish, met with similar failure. Word reached House Fuinir…and Ar-Tagan.

Overnight, tensions between the Houses ratcheted up to unheard levels. Herumor found itself on the receiving end of a lethal mistrust from all corners. Ar-Tagan snarled obscenities as he commanded the three Lords remaining in Caeldor as well as the six commanders—one from each House—to find the Arcanist responsible. 

The next morning, two bodies were found on altars belonging to House Mordhalor. Weapons, both of them belonging to House Vinuir. From an efficient engine of war orchestrating the movements of troops from Caeldor to Mordor, Ar-Tagan found his domain fractured. It was all he could do to prevent outright war from breaking out among the Houses as each night—despite heightened security—more of his troops were slain. 

House fortified itself against House, and feline spies were killed in droves. Coordinated efforts between Houses became impossible as the fragile bonds of trust snapped, and with Sauron raging over Saruman’s inept failure at Helm’s Deep, Tagan dared not allow word of his troubles to leak beyond Caeldor’s limits. He doggedly persisted in attempts to douse the discord destroying centuries of work. 

But then, the rumors started. Whispers spread that the Arcanists among them plotted in secret, that they intended to bleed every Weapon and Novice dry for the precious commodity flowing through their veins. Nonsense, of course, but the damage was done. Houses themselves began to crack. Weapons eyed Arcanists with hostility. Novices questioned their Hands, muttering to themselves about honor, but not the concept of honor they’d been taught to keep them loyal to their Houses. 

No, they spouted about it as a prudish, self-righteous Gondorian would. Such _honor_ was a useless concept, one that had no business among Tagan’s people. By Eru’s Doom, where was this nonsense springing from?

Ar-Tagan slew dozens of people, Arcanists and Weapons both, in a search of answers, but instead of frightening his underlings into compliance, his authority eroded daily, a fact he took pains to hide from the absent Ar-Cavendor. (Was it possible Cavendor was behind this? Was this a carefully orchestrated coup by the Weapons?)

Images of the Mouth replayed through Tagan’s mind. Ar-Tagan took to stalking Caeldor’s streets himself. 

He had to stop this. Find the source. And kill it.

OoOoOo

Berenor relaxed his vigilance and removed the headscarf from his head as The Brothers regrouped with Himon, Thalon…and the dwarf Ragan?…a good distance from Caeldor upon the Scorched Wastes. With the sun’s disappearance, the stifling heat of day had given way to chillier night, and the contrast left his skin pebbled and twitching in small shivers. Eru, but he hated this land.

“Is this a good idea?” Erynor asked, nodding to their dwarf companion. 

“Necessary,” Ragan grumbled, glowering suspiciously at the lands around them.

“Your grandfather,” Himon told Berenor, “decreed it was time to test Caeldor’s defenses. We need to know if they are keeping close watch before we can permit the dwarves to assess the city. They cannot exploit its weaknesses if they cannot see it themselves.”

And night was the best time to conduct such a test, Berenor concluded with a nod. Though the random boulder and scrub brush dotted the landscape, Tovennen was too flat for anyone’s comfort. Night offered a measure of concealment. 

“You’re bait?” Berenor asked the dwarf with tired amusement.

Ragan grunted. “Better me than Finnin.”

Since Finnin had been itching for open combat, Berenor had to agree. The blond warrior’s anger climbed with every day that passed with no word of Berenor’s cousin. 

“What news from Caeldor?” Himon asked shortly. The thin man slipped his lucky coin from a pocket and flipped it in nervous, rapid succession. 

“They’re turning on one another,” Calenor said. 

Erynor nodded. “Our efforts only nudge things along.”

Berenor agreed with him. “Whatever caused that first Arcanist’s death, we can only thank Eru. It won’t be long now before they are truly at war.”

“Good,” Himon said. His hand closed about the coin the moment it landed in his palm. “Should no Black Númenóreans come investigating the presence of a dwarf, we move on to the next stage.”


	35. Caeldor

_**Ruins of Dol Hamoth, Tovennen  
9 March TA 3016** _

Medlinor sat in the darkness, hidden within thick shadows cast against the cliff side by an overhang hundreds of feet above. Since Umbar, he’d more and more taken the night watches, knowing his wounds left him fit for little else. He could not mix with their enemy while hobbling about. 

Frustration simmered, but he pressed it back. He lived. It could have been much worse. Keeping watch permitted his fellow Rangers to sleep in peace. 

Eru knew they needed it. Rubbing shoulders with their enemies wore on each of them. Medlinor had heard nothing specific of the atrocities they witnessed when scouting the Black Númenórean territory and planting seeds of doubt, but he noted the grim cast that grew in their eyes. 

So, he watched. The Black Company had located the ruins of an ancient cliff dwelling in one of the dozens of valleys carved out of the hot, crusty desert. Though crumbling and dusty, this village’s bones remained true—the dwarves were adamant about that—and by hiding here, the Black Company could be certain that should any foe discover them, reaching them would be well nigh impossible. 

He’d give the Black Númenóreans’ ancestors this—they knew how to craft defensible strongholds when of a mind to do so. Seated at the top of the crumbling stairwell carved into the cliff side, the only access point, Medlinor took satisfaction in knowing his enemies’ skills were now being utilized to undermine them. 

Not far away, he saw a flicker of movement. The dwarf hunter, Dár, and Ranger Anuon stepped into view, easing their way from the dense vegetation that dominated the lush valley below. Then Medlinor stiffened when another body followed them. 

_By Eru._ “Thannor?”

OoOoOo

A sound propelled Dís from sleep. Her hand grasped her brother’s sword as she rolled to her bare feet, her unbound hair tumbling across her shoulders and chest.

From outside the stone structure the Black Company shared, Medlinor’s voice rose in shock. More of the Company roused and woke the rest. In seconds, an armed host filled the night blackened hall, each silent and intent upon every sound. 

With Death-Bringer in a loose grasp, Dís slid into position between Lord Hlein and Barhador, foot crossing over foot. If the enemy had found them, Dís was ready. She grinned toothily in anticipation.   
That was when Ranger Thannor strode boldly into their midst, as if he’d not been left in Dol Amroth to search for the dwarves’ Saldís. A handful of the Company exclaimed in shock. 

An alarmed Nori displaced Hlein at her side. Finnin was but a step behind. Dís placed her free hand first on Nori’s arm, then Finnin’s, compassion welling up. 

Once again facing forward, Dís studied the Ranger as he marched towards his father. By Durin, Thannor appeared haggard. It did not bode well for his news. 

“Father,” Thannor greeted. The Ranger’s gaze swept among them, and his visage seemed to harden. “Bifur, Bofur, and Dori. They are not here?”

“Here?” Dís barked, one hand lashing out to halt Nori from moving. The ex-thief had lost Ori. Though Nori did little to betray it, she’d seen how protective he’d become of his older brother. 

With a short bow her way, his gaze sliding to Nori and Finnin, Thannor said, “I found evidence that Saldís had come to shore. She’s alive.”

_Mahal._ Dís did not melt in relief, for there was more to this tale written upon the Ranger’s face, but she noticed when Finnin swayed. One big hand pawed at his eyes. 

“Go on,” she said above the instant flood of chatter that erupted among the Company. A curt gesture silenced the ruckus. 

Thannor continued. “She washed ashore in Harondor.” His voice dipped as he informed his father, “I tracked her into Haradrim lands.”

“Haradrim lands?” Barhador asked with eyebrows high. Dís did not like the sound of that, either. Saldís couldn’t have been in any shape to attempt such a journey.

Thannor nodded perfunctorily. “I sent word to Dol Amroth, telling Bifur’s group to join you here. I told them that I would bring Saldís to the Company.”

Finnin’s voice cut through the resulting rumbles. “Where is she, Thannor? Where’s our lass?” 

Sympathy crossed the Ranger’s face. “She didn’t travel alone. I do not know who is with her, but the two are here.”

“Here?” Lord Hlein interrupted, finger pointed to the floor. 

Thannor’s lips compressed minutely. “I’d hoped to find her with you.” Then to Finnin directly, the Ranger said, “I do not know what manner of man travels with her, but I tell you this—he is no common man. Some Power moved him, for despite all my attempts, I could not overtake them.”

“Enemy?” Nori asked. He inspected a dagger a dagger with chilling intensity. 

“I do not know, Master Nori,” Thannor said. “Truly, if any of the First Born dwelled in these lands, I would suspect her companion to be one of them. Or perhaps Mithrandir.”

“Could it be an Arcanist?” Berenor asked as he elbowed his way through the Company. 

Thannor smiled briefly as his son reached his side. The Ranger placed one hand on his son’s shoulder, the action as poignant as a close embrace. “You are well?”

Berenor’s head bobbed. “Saldís. Father is she…?”

Dís, too, waited with bated breath for the answer. “She is on her feet,” Thannor told them. “The man tended her wounds. That, I am sure of.”   
Thannor’s focus returned to Dís. “I tell you, lady, your lost Longbeard is here. Somewhere.”

Dís’s eyes gleamed. If an enemy had Saldís, he would rue the day. “Then we will find her,” Dís proclaimed. “Or,” she said to her dwarves, “leave our daughter signs that will permit her to find us.”

Finnin’s nod was short, the flesh around his eyes pinched. Nori’s eyelids dropped to half mast, that blade still in his hand. 

Mahal, the Company little needed the two hotheads to storm off in search while the rest of them slept. Dís returned Death-Bringer to its sheath, then she placed a hand on both of them, facing them. “We know not what state she might be in. Both of you must be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Both readily agreed. 

“But you will not do anything rash. Do you understand?” she said in a hard voice.

Finnin reluctantly inclined his head. 

Nori scowled.

“Nori,” she said softly, then waited for his eyes to lift to hers. “You get first right at anyone who may have harmed her.”

A light ignited in his blue eyes. “That a promise?”

“On my honor.”

Finnin cleared his throat. 

“If you wish rights, you’ll need to declare yourself,” Dís informed the younger dwarf. 

Finnin’s arms crossed before his chest. And by Durin, did the dwarf look pleased. “Aye, I’ll be doing that.”

_Good._

“Now,” Dís said briskly. “Barhador.”

“You needn’t ask,” the Ranger said softly, and the hairs upon her nape lifted. If she’d believed Nori and Finnin were alone the danger here, she was mistaken. “We’ll find her.”

Berenor nodded from Thannor’s side. “Count on it.”

That, Dís intended to do.

OoOoOo

__  
**Caeldor, Tovennen  
10 March TA 3019**

Saldís’s lips curled unpleasantly beneath the black fabric wrapped around her face, crinkling the tattooed skin beneath her left eye. Berúthiel’s cats, would the scum here never learn? A week of vigilantism on her part, slaying any who would prey upon the children, and no one seemed to have realized that seeking out a child with malicious intent had become a fatal enterprise. 

Except, mayhap, the children themselves. 

No, Caeldor’s adults attributed the bodies she left behind to inter-House strife alone. The resultant heightened security made her efforts all the more challenging, but Saldís persisted nonetheless, well aware of the consequences should she be found out. She tried not to dwell on it, but images of the _brih tahn_ flashed through her mind. 

By Durin’s famed beard, this plan was risky. The problem was lack of alternatives. With only two to undermine Caeldor and attempt to save the Novices, options were limited.

She prowled along the rooftop, keeping low, her gaze fixated upon the _ugrad_ stalking a young female Novice half his size down the night-darkened street. The man’s blithe actions meant none of the Novices had betrayed her.

Yet. 

She was reaching them. Though she’d only intervened to rescue a dozen or so young ones, word must have spread that they’d acquired a protector, for the last soul she’d rescued had taken one look at the Khuzdul rune upon her face and donned an expression of such trust that it had sent Akhora into fits of scorn. 

Saldís hadn’t heeded her. The plan was working. Risky as it was to reveal her existence to Novices, it was _working._

_For how long?_ Akhora countered in a silken purr. _You will be betrayed. You will bleed for Tagan, and I will relish—_

_Itkit,_ Saldís said without heat, acclimated to the unwanted barrage of threats. She leaned closer to the edge of the rooftop, her lips compressed beneath her head scarf. 

Down the street a dozen yards away, the _ugrad_ male’s broad shoulders blotted out all sight of the diminutive girl. He drove his intended victim into an alley, his hands lashing out to rip her weapons from her, one by one. Though the girl fought with the silent intensity drilled into all Novices, she was losing this fight, and from the panicked tenor of her actions, she knew it. 

Saldís had seen this too often since her return. Girls and boys both, exploited by those physically more powerful for sick amusement. It said much about the state of the attackers’ souls. Wretched, pathetic things, all of them. 

This one, too, would be stripped, his body left on another House’s altar. It distantly amazed her that none yet had entertained the idea that perhaps the sudden upsurge in bloodshed might be the doing of an outsider. Nay, each time she’d left the would-be attacker dead, the fury and distrust between the Houses escalated, and inter-House violence ratcheted up another notch.

The two vanished into an alley one building over from Saldís’s position, hidden from the eyes of the handful of smirking sentries stationed on nearby street corners. Well did those on watch know what was about to transpire. They permitted it, were amused by it because the girl was from another House. Likely, they thought this fitting vengeance for some action of Saldís’s.

Her gaze flicked to the sentries, and to them she directed, _You will pay for this._ Instead of an altar, mayhap she’d leave the would-be rapist in the middle of the street, the sentries to be found asleep at their posts. 

Such actions were made all the simpler with Caeldor so emptied, and that despite Tagan’s attempts to bolster security. Ar-Tagan remained in residence as well as Ar-Nahlis (just what had happened to Kimilzor, may he rot?), Ar-Aemazia of House Berúthiel and Ar-Kavish of House Herumor. But the lords of Fuinir, Mordhalor, and Vinuir were absent, as well as all but one commander from each House. Much of Caeldor was now unoccupied, a situation she presumed Tagan regretted bitterly. 

She smirked behind her scarf, but it was short lived. Despite their haste, she and her newfound ally had arrived too late to halt the Black Númenóreans from marching north to war, and the knowledge stuck in her craw and burned like acid. Too much was going wrong. By Mahal, she’d sworn to make Adâd proud, but at this rate, was there any chance of that happening?

She unkinked her shoulders. The absent Black Númenórean forces were going to be a problem. She dreaded the thought of pursuing them into Mordor. Attempting to destroy them right beneath the Dark Lord’s burning Eye seemed tantamount to suicide. 

She’d do it if she had to, but only as a last resort. Adâd would never wish her to throw her life away, and if there was one thing that had helped put her tattered self back together again after the storm, it was Bifur. Dead or not, he’d become her compass. She trusted his memory to point her aright. 

_The old man had best think of something,_ she mused, thoughts full of the absent Black Númenórean forces. 

Dismissing such thoughts—they were a future worry, not for this night—she loped across the rooftop, keeping low with eyes in constant motion. To be spotted now wouldn’t be disastrous, not entirely, but the young Novice would pay the price should Saldís be detained. 

‘Twas as she reached the alley and prepared to leap down that movement upon the street below froze her in place with her hands resting on the roof’s lip and knees bent. Gooseflesh pebbled her arms and legs, her breath hitched, and her gaze sharpened. Even as the sounds of distress escalated in the alley below, she could not tear herself away.

Mahal. It couldn’t be.

Three Weapons strolled down the street, their shoulders back, faces hard, and eyes alert. One had curly, auburn hair and a freckled-face. One possessed a sleek head of blond hair and an indentation smack dab in the middle of his chin. And the third? Black hair. Square features and long sideburns. 

She stared, disbelieving, as the world seem to shift beneath her feet. The Brothers…lived? 

Only awareness of unfriendly eyes and ears kept her mute. Words jammed into a snarl in her mouth, desperate for voice. Every fiber of her begged to call out to them. 

They lived. Against all hope and logic, they _lived._ She’d not been left bereft. She was not forsaken. 

Like the resound of a gong, the realization reverberated through her: _Adâd lives. Finnin lives._

The intimate dream returned before her mind’s eye in vivid detail. Not simply memorized, it was etched into her very soul. Many a night during the journey south she’d lain awake, torturing herself with each nuance—how Finnin had smelled, the solid _tha-thump_ of his beating heart, and the absolute sense of warmth and safety that permeated the scene.

Saldís inhaled shakily. A burning, yawning emptiness spread through her chest, demanding satisfaction. She needed to see him, to see all of them. She needed touch each one of her companions to assure herself they truly lived. 

One tear escaped to trickle down her right cheek until it was absorbed by her head scarf. Soon, she promised herself. Once finished with her plans this night, by Durin she’d find the Black Company. 

_Adâd._ So much she yearned to tell him, foremost among them words of apology. She’d been wrong, terribly wrong, and by Mahal, she’d confess as much. 

_I’ll find you,_ she promised, eyes upon The Brothers’ backs as they drew farther away. _I swear it._ She’d never take her dwarves or Rangers for granted again. 

The noises from the alley persisted, reaching a crescendo that she could no longer ignore. With one last lingering look at the three Dunedain, she dropped down onto the cobbled, night blackened alley below. 

The _ugrad_ didn’t even notice her arrival, too intent upon ripping the clothes from his victim. Saldís’s anger turned as cold as Forochel. 

For a moment, it was Gart there instead of the black-clad man. Fury and mortification returned. Her stomach churned to recall the disgusting feeling of clammy hands on her body. She drew one of her Gondorian swords.

The rasp of metal upon metal garnered an instant reaction. The male stiffened. With one hand to the girl’s neck, pinning her against one wall, he spun around. The girl continued to fight like a wildcat, scratching up his arms and kicking at his legs and privates, but his gaze didn’t leave Saldís. With a grunt of annoyance, he rammed the girl’s head into the wall, then he released her to fall in a heap on the ground, her head weaving woozily.

_You’ll regret that, filth._ Saldís clucked her tongue and stalked forward slowly. “That’s not the way you treat a lady,” she crooned softly, keeping her voice too hushed to be recognized. “Afraid to pick on someone your own size, are you?” 

Though his face remained shadowed, by the tilt of his head she knew when his eyes swept over her disdainfully. “You’re out of uniform, Novice.” Then a dark laugh. “If you are so eager to share in the fun, come closer.”

At five-foot-six she was on the short side for a daughter of Numenor, but to assume her a Novice? _Tsk, tsk,_ she clucked to herself. _Assumptions are for amateurs._ Saldís’s gaze flicked to his earlobe, but it was too dark to make out his rank. Master, she guessed on a hunch. He had the arrogance for it. 

“Show yourself,” he demanded.

Tempting. Her lips curled upwards, envisioning his response should she acquiesce. Would he wet himself? She stalked closer. 

His shoulders tensed. “I’m warning you. Put that blade down, or you’ll be next, little girl.”

She didn’t react, only kept to her slow pace knowing it would unnerve him.

“You,” he spat abruptly, his confident superiority vanishing. “So you are the bogeyman I heard a Novice whispering about. I thought you a figment of his imagination,” he jeered. “Instead you sneak about like a coward.” 

His posture changed. It was the only warning before a column of flame flew from his hand, spearing down the center of the alleyway.

_Arcanist._ Saldís had expected the _ugrad_ to do something underhanded, but she’d hoped him to be a Weapon. She threw herself to the pavement, then rolled to the right as another volley came her way. 

_Urkhas kûd._ His fiery show would summon every fighter in town. That, she couldn’t permit. A flick of the hand, and the dagger she’d filched from Caeldor’s armory flew through the air, interrupting the Arcanist mid-spell. 

What she’d meant to be a lethal strike instead left him sprawled on his back, panting with difficulty. The knife’s hilt protruded two inches off-center in his chest. A killing blow, aye, but a slower one.

She strode to him briskly. Her first good look at his face robbed her of satisfaction in her victory. 

_What a waste._ A jaded feeling stole over her, one accompanied by a measure of frustration. He was no more than seventeen years old. Young to have earned the third earring, but not unheard of. ‘Twas a sure indicator of how vile this young man had become. The more powerful, the more evil. That was the rule with Arcanists. 

Squatting by his side, ignoring the way he glared as he struggled for each breath, she said, “It needn’t have come to this.” Then softer, “Never let another chart the course of your life.” A lesson she’d learned the hard way. Like this Arcanist, she’d all but destroyed herself by her blind obedience.

Confusion joined the fury in his eyes. Then with a strength she hadn’t expected left to him, he reared up and snatched the scarf from her head. His eyes widened as he fell back onto the ground, chest heaving. “Ib-Ak—Akhora.”

Her gaze flicked to the equally shocked blond girl before returning to the young man. 

“Y—you aid Vinuir?” he managed. “Against…your own…House? You interfere…with our…Novices?”

He was of Sangahyando? She didn’t recognize him.

Wishing there was some way she could save this young soul, knowing it too late, she said, “What have the Houses given you, Arcanist? Safety? Brotherhood?” A short sound of ridicule escaped her. “They use and discard you.” 

With a small wave of the hand, she encompassed the streets around them. “To Sauron and the Duumvirate, we are fodder. We’ve all seen proof of that, haven’t we? We are useful but expendable. My House? It is no longer Sangahyando.” A slow, sincere smile tilted her lips. _They live!_ she thought with a surge of emotion strong enough to steal her breath. 

She forced it back. “My House and my allegiance lie elsewhere. I give my loyalty to those who give theirs in return, not to despots who would bleed me for amusement.” Then in a steel voice, “Or breed me like an animal.”

Lofty words, aye, and too late to make a difference for this soul. Saldís wasn’t altogether certain an Arcanist _could_ be saved. The very nature of their art required a depth of evil she hoped never to fully understand. Akhora might envy their power, but Saldís never had.

And Akhora, she thought with grim satisfaction, was doomed. 

_I think not,_ her inner nemesis snapped. 

Saldís lingered by the boy, aware of the danger in doing so. With one hand, she gently pushed the hair from his face, offering the only comfort she could until the life drained from his eyes. _Poor fool._ How different might his life have been had he been born to humble farmers? Or a simple Gondorian soldier? 

Her hand trailed down to close his blank eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For being too late to save you. For not understanding the truth sooner.” So many wasted years serving the Duumvirate when she should have been protecting the young.

Movement drew her head up. The young Novice ignored her torn clothes in favor of snatching up her scimitar. She stood on shaky legs, the blade held defensively before her body. 

Saldís considered the girl. “I would ask you not to betray my identity, but I suspect it would be useless.” 

Night darkened eyes churned with a tumultuous mix of emotions, premier among them suspicion. _To be expected,_ she sighed to herself. The Novices were conditioned from the day they began training to distrust everyone and everything. Only the Lords and Hands received their blind obedience, and later, their commanders.

“You were dead,” the Novice said at last.

Saldís’s lips pursed. “I am no wraith.” Then, Bofur’s disarming manner in mind— _He lives!_ —she added, “What a frightful thing, to be dripping goo and decaying this way and that.” She scrunched her nose in exaggeration.

The Novice’s eyes rounded. 

Eh, well so had Saldís been when first reclaimed. Kind banter was unknown here. 

She remained squatting, unwilling to make herself seem more of a threat to the clearly frightened Novice.

“What does it mean?” the Novice asked, fidgeting where she stood.

Following the direction of the girl’s gaze, Saldís hazarded to guess what had drawn her attention. Dressing like a Black Númenórean was necessary, but it hadn’t sat well with Saldís. Too, how to win Caeldor’s youth to her side if nothing distinguished her from all the other adults in town? To this end, she’d drawn the Khuzdul rune for honor beneath her left eye. In Durin blue. She proclaimed her affiliation to any with the wits and knowledge to read it.

“The rune?” she asked.

“It isn’t Adûnaic,” the girl accused. 

“That would be correct,” Saldís agreed, a ghost of a smile lingering upon her lips. 

“Traitor,” the girl hissed. 

“To whom?” Saldís cocked one eyebrow. “To Ar-Tagan? Kimilzor? Or perhaps my wonderful Arcanist half-brother who ensured not a member of our scouting team survived our trip to Dale by betraying our existence to the men there?” 

“You lived.” The Novice’s fingers tightened upon the hilt of her scimitar. “When the rest of your team died.” 

By Durin, Saldís hoped she would not be compelled to silence this young one. “I was lucky,” she said flatly. “Before coming here, I spent eight years as daughter to a dwarf. That dwarf stayed the king of Dale’s hand before I was executed. Instead of imprisonment and punishment, I was given love. Security and loyalty. Tell me, what can compare to that? What I said to this Arcanist is true. There is no future in serving the Houses but one: an unmarked grave.”

Anger vibrated from the girl. Confusion. 

Saldís stood, sword limp at her side, unthreatening. Still, the girl brandished her blade. “You have a choice,” Saldís told her. “Run to the Hands. Or Ar-Tagan if you are so foolish. Tell them all you learned this night, and congratulate yourself as I perish on Tagan’s altar.”

The Novice’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t going to kill me?” 

By Bifur’s spear, how to reach this Novice? “I came to save you. To save every Novice I can.”

The girl inched away. “From what? For what?” she spat with a bitterness Saldís knew too well. “Love and security?” She snorted. “Do you take me for an infant?”

“No.” Saldís’s sad smile was fleeting. “You are wrong, but I don’t blame you. I, too, believed as you do.” Saldís made no move to halt the girl from slowly retreating. “But I was given another chance. I’ve seen it. Places where people live without fear or hatred and violence. I’ve lived it.”

“You lie,” came like the lash of a whip.

“I intend to see you saved from this life. I offer you a gift you cannot even imagine. Safety. Laughter. A future full of hope where you will not die too young, your soul charred to a husk.” Saldís raked one hand through her hair, bitterly aware of the inadequacy of words. How could she show these young ones…? 

Saldís’s gaze dropped to the boy’s body. How many more of Caeldor’s young would meet his end? Die reeking of their evil deeds before they were even old enough to understand they had a choice? 

Without looking at the girl, Saldís said, “For your sake, for all those trapped in this nightmarish life with you, I would ask you to remain silent and consider my words. I am your way out, Novice. You won’t get another.” 

Only by the minute scrape of soft boots on pavement did she know that the girl’s slow retreat continued. 

“I promise you this. If you remain silent, my sword will defend you.”

“Why should I trust you?” Then as if unable to hold back the words, “Shut up! Shut up with your lies!”

Saldís gifted her with a somber look. “It’s in your hands, Novice. I give you what the Duumvirate never will. Choice. Go. I have plans for this body.”

As soon as the girl’s footsteps faded, Saldís dropped to a squat and rubbed her face. Had she done right, or should she begin running for her life? If the Novice ran to the Hands—or, Mahal forbid, Ar-Tagan—the fury of the entire remaining Black Númenórean army would be unleashed, and all of it aimed at hunting and destroying Saldís. 

Mahal. She might not be the only intruder discovered. The realization made her mouth go dry. 

“A gamble, but a good one, I think,” a soft voice sounded in her right ear. 

Saldís startled, sword free and flashing instantly. It collided with a carved walnut staff she’d become well acquainted with in recent weeks. “Are you trying to get your head lobbed off?” she hissed to her companion.

The old man’s plethora of small braids spilled over his shoulder as his head panned, presenting her with his profile. From beneath the brim of an absurdly conical hat, his expression was one of absolute vigilance. 

Saldís batted a feather from his hair out of her face with a long-suffering sigh. Truly, her companion was the oddest soul she’d ever met. Powerful, aye. Both of the Blue Wizards were, and well did those in these lands know it. 

But strange. If he was the lesser of the two Blue Wizards as he claimed in terms of magics, she couldn’t help but believe him the superior in other ways. He moved with a careful grace she’d never before witnessed, and he wielded his weapons with sinuous ease. His ability to evade detection was unmatched, and that despite the sea-blue robes and hat.

“Pallando,” she whispered, nudging him.

A thin, sun-bronzed and weathered face turned her way. Truly, he looked ageless despite his silvered gray hair and short beard. It was his eyes, she’d long since concluded. They held a depth surpassing even the impressive Lord Círdan. 

“We should away,” he said, again in that low voice. His habit, she’d learned. “In case your gambit fails.” He rose from his crouch, the hem of his robes pooling around his feet. Then with one hand to her back, he hurried her down the alley. “But I deem this worth the risk.” 

“I have a body to stage,” she objected.

“Not this time.”

Bah, he was likely correct. Saldís detested wasting the young man’s death, however. “If this doesn’t work, I’ve just kicked this hive. We’ll lose access to the children.” She kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, distantly wondering (and not for the first time) how it was the wizard managed to sneak about unseen in such garish robes. “But I’ve other news.”

“Oh?” Piercing, ice blue eyes slid her way, then returned to his scrutiny of their surroundings.

Her voice shook with the fierce swell of emotions. “They live.”

He stopped, his expression one of deep thought. “Your dwarves.”

“The Company,” she agreed. “I saw The Brothers. They are here, doing as we’d planned.”

Pallando twirled his staff in a short, abrupt circle. He did not speak, but she detected his satisfaction.

Mahal knew the two of them could use the help. She hadn’t dared to assassinate Caeldor’s leaders—yet—since failure would spell the end of hope for the Novices. The Black Company’s presence opened a veritable treasure trove of options.

By her soul, she needed to rejoin the her dwarves. The hunger grew with each breath. _Finnin._

“Did you hear from Alatar?” she asked as they crept from the alley. 

At Pallando’s directive nod, she drew the blowpipe she’d fashioned from her belt, eyes on the sentries watching the southern portion of the street. One, two, three darts flew, each laced with a new poison the odd wizard had introduced her to that left its victim paralyzed for a handful of hours while erasing his short-term memory. Her three targets collapsed in quick succession.

She smirked with pride. 

Pallando, meanwhile, dealt with the four to the north, lobbing a _boomerang_ (or so he’d dubbed it) that somehow managed to hit each target in turn before flying back towards the wizard. 

“You cheat,” she accused softly with a laugh as he lifted a hand to pluck his returning weapon from the air.

“Practice.” Blue eyes crinkled down at her. “Thousands of years of practice.” A short smile. “The Avari of the Wild Wood are particularly fond of these. Prince Rialton challenges me each time I visit their lands.”

From the sparkle in his eyes, she deduced he enjoyed those challenges. “You miss them,” she said. “The Avari.”

He hummed an affirmative in the back of his throat. “The other wizards perhaps have more freedom. But there are only two of us in these lands, and our task is already too big. We undermine, but we are unable to utterly turn the tide.” A flash of pain and frustration appeared on his face. “Despite all our efforts, the Shadow’s hold is too strong, and its servants too numerous.”

What to say? She couldn’t imagine carrying Pallando’s burden for the centuries this man had. 

Before she managed words, Pallando tucked his unusual weapon into his belt and turned brusque. “Alatar is otherwise engaged. The Black Númenóreans are ours to deal with. Thinning the Varaig numbers during their march north is his. Now. What say you? How do we find these companions of yours?”

A cocktail of relief and anticipation zinged through her, carrying with them a pack mule of impatience. _Hurry, hurry, hurry,_ a voice chanted in her mind. With chin down and a tremulous smile, she led the way. “We locate The Brothers.”


	36. Bâhzundushuh

_**Heights above Caeldor  
Tovennen** _

Finnin waited with nerves thrumming, arms folded across his chest and chin low as he glared down into Caeldor’s valley from the night darkened heights above. He waited, and he would continue to wait. 

He little cared how dangerous his current position was, how exposed he stood, where any an eye might pierce the night to find him. Thus far, the Black Númenóreans had proved to be lax in their outward security, never dreaming enemies would find them. He banked upon that blindness persisting. It must. At least this for this night. 

The Rangers searched. Saldís was down there, and they would find her. With one boot, he scuffed the cliff’s edge, uncaring of the steep drop.

“They’ll find her,” Finnur murmured at his side.

Aye, but in what state? His eyes closed as nightmarish pictures of some man forcing himself on her flashed through his mind. Fury sizzled through his veins each time he thought on it, and this waiting was in no ways helping. It was all he could do not to march into that city himself with ax in hand. 

Finnur glanced his way before sidling closer until their shoulders touched, a silent offer of support. 

“I need her, Finnur,” Finnin whispered. His hands formed fists. “I need her well and in my arms.” The waiting, the not knowing, it was the hardest thing he’d ever endured. Since learning she’d survived, he burned with impatience to reach her.

“Aye.” No more need be said. Finnur knew him, inside and out. 

Time passed. The brothers kept their silent vigil.

Finnin rubbed the back of his neck. Nori and Lady Dís were positioned like Finnur and Finnin at the opposite end of the canyon, the idea being that when Saldís was found, the Rangers would rush her to whichever of the pairs was closer. Well did the Khazâd among them know the damage these Númenóreans had done to her the last time they’d gotten their filthy hands on her. The Longbeards stood ready to race to her aid as soon as she was free.

Would she trust even them after she’d been in the hands of evil men?

Finnin exhaled slowly. Such thoughts would see him charging down into the valley, the smattering of Firebeard blood in his veins dominant in a hurry. 

A slight crunching noise sounded behind him. Thalon or Anuon, Finnin labeled. The two Rangers prowled the vicinity on alert for any sign of Weapons, Arcanists or animal spies. Finnin trusted in their exceptional skills to guard his back. His focus never left the path that exited his end of the valley.

_Find her._ The entirety of his will backed the thought. 

At least, it did until a blade nicked his throat.

Finnin froze. _Mahal._ How had the ruffian managed to slip past the Rangers? Or—and this had him seeing red—had the cretin killed them? Finnin’s eyes slid to his brother. Finnur was utterly unaware of their peril. 

_You made a mistake in not slaying me outright,_ he promised his adversary. If the Black Company had been found out, they would go down fighting to the last soul. Aye, they would. 

Finnin girded himself. He’d lash out fast with all his strength. Should Aulë smile, this fool would shortly have an unfortunate mishap and take a lethal tumble from their lofty height. 

But then lips brushed his ear. “This time, we’re in my territory. You never saw me coming.” Droll humor from a whisper-soft feminine voice. 

The air rushed from his lungs. Saldís.

OoOoOo

Saldís slowly retracted her blade, brow creasing when instead of turning to her, Finnin’s shoulders sagged and his head bowed. Her gaze dipped to the scene below. The brash dwarf dared much, standing here so openly. Granted, it was dark and the likelihood of him being spotted was small, but why risk it?

The worry of discovery nagged her, but the longer she stared at the back of Finnin’s head, the more it faded from importance. By her soul, she could not look upon the warrior without a tightness claiming her chest and throat. Long nights, she’d lain awake remembering that dream, and here he was, alive and well when she’d grieved him as lost. What was she to do now?

_Orc spit._ This was outside her realm of experience.

Finnin might have been frozen in place, but Finnur whipped around, her friend’s bushy red beard splitting with a grin, but other than a small smile and a dip of the head, she had no attention to spare. Her free hand lifted towards Finnin’s broad back, then dropped. Finnin’s attention remained fixed outward, his throat moving. At his sides, his big hands reflexively fisted and unclenched.

Saldís abruptly decided she preferred it that way. Cowardly? Mayhap, but there were words she needed to say that would not be easy to utter. Time was short. There were Novices even now without the protection of her blade, and that could not be allowed to continue. She must tell the Black Company all she’d learned, all that had developed, and hie herself back quickly.

If Saldís wished the future she’d seen in that dream— _Vision,_ a part of her insisted—she best do something about it now. She returned her blade to its sheath, mind racing. What did she know about wooing a male? Especially one she was far from deserving.

Frustration surged. Aye, and a tendril of panic. No matter her utter ignorance and unworthiness, she refused to relinquish the hoped-for future. She’d lost too much. She wouldn’t readily lose this.

But what to do now?

Finnur flapped a hand at her. Gaining her attention, he signed in Iglishmêk, _*Ye near stole the heart from him, dying on us like that.*_ Sincerity beamed from his face.

She gave him a silted nod. Thought. Then temptation got the best of her.

Saldís’s arms slid around Finnin, and the warrior stiffened, his body going absolutely still. Finnur, the pesky meddler, grinned. 

She inhaled as her arms twined around the warrior, breathing in his scent. By Durin. Finnin smelled the same as the dream. _Vision,_ her soul reiterated. Her arms circled as far as they could reach around his wider girth, her torso pressing against his back, and her forehead lowered to rest against the back of his skull. 

Warmth. Comfort. Saldís closed her eyes and inhaled a second time. _Aye, the same._ He smelled of leathers and the myrrh-laced oil he rubbed into his gear, but underneath it all was the musky scent she associated with the dwarf himself. 

She burned with the need to ferret out the truth, to see for herself if he bore a scar upon his abdomen, to feel the hairs upon his chest and determine if the texture was as she remembered. 

_I’m sure that would go over well,_ she snorted to herself. The Company would think her mad, perhaps rightfully so.

A sigh escaped her, and she tightened her grip around her dwarf. So many words that needed to be said, and she hadn’t any idea where to start.

OoOoOo

Finnin slowly, carefully, wrapped his arms around the ones holding him about the chest. Saldís was alive, and more, she was…somewhat…in his arms. She’d jested with him, though he thought her stunt in poor taste after all the worrying he’d done.

“You could not announce yourself without putting a blade to my neck?” he asked, keeping his voice light by sheer determination. His eyesight was blurry, a fact he knew his brother noted. In the hottest part of his soul, the refrain pounded, _She’s here._ She was safe now, and sweet relief blanketed him to know it. 

“It seemed appropriate,” she said, her words muffled against the back of his head.

Appropriate? Clearly, they had differing definitions of the word. 

A wee shudder wracked her frame. “I thought you were dead, Finnin,” she said, her voice tight with a pain he knew intimately. “You. Adâd. Everyone.”

“Nay,” he said thickly. Was that what had prompted this embrace?

His thumb caressed the smooth skin of her forearm. He dared not do more for fear of stepping upon any wounds she’d been dealt. What, he asked himself, had been done to her? The fear of seeing his worst nightmares written upon her flesh had prevented him from immediately collecting her in his arms. Aye, that and the worry he’d not be able to resist snatching her close when she’d not be able to tolerate it. 

A sound, a scuffling of a boot, and Finnin’s gaze slid behind and to his left, all while trying not to move his head too much for fear of disturbing Saldís. The Brothers stood there. Ranger Anuon, too, though Berenor’s uncle stood facing not Finnin and Saldís but the desert around them. Protecting them all. 

After loudly clearing his throat, Finnur stepped closer. “Ye don’t get to hog her,” the redhead said in an intentionally jolly voice. “Give over.” His brother’s arms spread wide to encompass the two of them, his yellow jacket jangling. Before Finnin could fret about Saldís’s response, he felt her wee laugh.

He’d never heard a sound so beautiful. Or reassuring. Finnin refused to relinquish Saldís completely—he’d never be ready for that—but he permitted her to retract her left arm. She snaked it about his brother to add him to their embrace. 

She trusted them. After all that had transpired, Finnin had feared she’d reject all males save mayhap Bifur. His fingers interlaced with those of her right hand, and by his beard, she returned the clasp. 

_Bâhzundushuh. (My_ raven.) _My dushin-mizim._

“Now I’m jealous,” came Calenor’s drawl. Finnin’s head tilted just enough to bring the black-haired Ranger into view again. “We’re her cousins, and we didn’t get such grand treatment.” Though the Ranger kept his tone light, Finnin read the message Calenor had intended when their eyes met. Saldís had eschewed contact with the Rangers. To be expected, but Finnin’s heart ached to know it. 

“You’re not nearly so huggable,” Finnur blustered at the Rangers. “Look at the lot o’ you. No beards. No meat on your bones to speak of.” He sniffed in mock disdain. “O’ course she’d prefer a dwarf’s embrace.”

Finnin felt the tension drain from Saldís as Finnur deflected attention from her. Finnin’s anger returned. It was further proof all was not as it had been with their lass. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, wishing he dared turn and haul her into a true embrace. 

Finnur continued bantering with The Brothers, extricating himself to join the three Rangers. Finnin let the conversation flow without him, his focus upon the woman pressed up against his back as her left arm once more wrapped about him. She seemed to crave the contact, a need he was more than happy to oblige.

Craning his head about, he buried his nose in Saldís’s wild tumble of black hair. “Am I allowed to turn around?” he murmured. 

“No.”

Finnin analyzed that for a moment, uncertain how to interpret her response. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Finnin,” she whispered. The strength of her clasp was convincing enough. 

“Your loss near gutted me,” he shared in a rough voice. “I should never have permitted…” He bit off the rest, cursing himself for broaching a matter that would pain her. 

“Finnin,” she said. Then in Khuzdul, “Do you still want me?”

His head whipped around, his jaw dropping. Did he still…? 

Somber gray eyes met his glare as he caught his first full look at her bonny face. She looked…well. There was no sign of the bruises and welts he’d feared, but he wasn’t about to assume she was unscathed. A new tattoo underscored her left eye— _Why the Khuzdul rune for honor, Dushin-Mizim?_ —and a black scarf dangled about her neck. Dressed all in black, she was, and that, he hadn’t expected.

Nor had he anticipated her question. Durin’s ax, his fingers itched to caress the petal softness of her face—so very different from a dwarrowdam’s—even as a part of him wished to rail at her for doubting his constancy. 

As if he’d do a fool thing like change his mind. 

He swallowed back the ire. Raised by Bifur though she’d been for eight years, there was much she could not be expected to recall of their ways. He leaned closer until their noses almost brushed. “Aye,” he said lowly, never so serious in his life. “And I’ll not be changing my mind.”

The wee glimpse of emotion he spied fled before he could pin it down. Relief? There was vulnerability, of that he was certain. 

“I have to tell you something,” she said, keeping to Khuzdul. A shaky inhale. A furrowing of the brow.

“You but give me the names of those who harmed you, and I’ll see them dead,” Finnin said bluntly. By Mahal, he’d enjoy it. 

Her head lifted a fraction. “Gart _is_ dead,” she said, and he detected both fury and pain in her voice.

“I’m meaning the others,” he growled. 

“I can slay my own foes,” she said with narrowed eyes. Then gentler, “There were none.” She looked out across the valley, her temple leaning against his. “I believed I’d lost all of you, so I journeyed here to do what I could to damage Caeldor’s war efforts by myself.”

By…herself? That fast, anger returned. He understood her reasoning, but by Durin, to attempt it alone? _Nay, not alone._ His nostrils flared as he recalled Thannor’s tale. “Who journeyed with you?” 

Her eyes slid until their gazes met out of the corner of her eye. “How did you know of that?” she asked. 

“Thannor tracked you through Haradrim lands. We feared an Arcanist had you.”

She retreated an inch and shook her head, a small frown upon her lips. “Nay,” she said. Then a wee smiled flashed. By his beard, Finnin rejoiced to see it. “With such keen powers of observation as yours,” she teased him—aye, teased, he thrilled—“I’m surprised you failed to notice him.”

Failed to…? Finnin’s head whipped around, and Saldís evaded a hard colliding of skulls with a breathy laugh. 

He saw no… His brows climbed to see a wild looking old man in bright blue robes standing only yards away, surveying Caeldor as Finnin himself had but minutes ago. How, by Aulë’s lifted hammer, could he have missed him? 

The old man’s sharp eyes flicked his way, and his head dipped perfunctorily. Then he returned to his scrutiny.

“Pallando,” Saldís whispered to Finnin in Common. “One of the Blue Wizards. We could not have hoped for a better ally.”

Wizard. Finnin’s inspection intensified. So unlike Gandalf, this one. Where Gandalf’s beard was respectably long and full, this chap wore his short. His hair was gray and contained in dozens of thin braids adorned with bronze-colored bird feathers. He had a staff, aye, one carved to look like naught but a thick rope of intertwined vines, but this Pallando also carried bow and arrows, a spear, and other accoutrements Finnin could not name. 

_Yet,_ he promised himself, interest sharpening as his gaze lingered upon a couple of them.

Such thoughts vanished as Saldís returned to Khuzdul. With guilt dripping from the words, she said, “I need to tell you something, Finnin. I need you to hear me out.” A pause. 

He hugged her arms to him, silently urging her on. 

“I thought you dead. The Black Vengeance destroyed.” Her hands clutched at him as if afraid of losing him. 

Finnin continued the slow caress of her hand, intent upon her words. 

“I lost honor, Finnin. I faltered. In my grief…”

Such shame, he heard. It near broke his own heart. Lost honor? He did not believe it. “Aye?” he coaxed. 

“The tattoo is a reminder. A promise to myself to never again forget who I belong to.”

_Me,_ was his automatic response. _You belong to me, Bâhzundushuh._

Finnin swallowed the words, and his thumb continued its slow massage. A short glance to the side revealed The Brothers and Finnur absorbed in their own conversation…or so he thought when Berenor’s gaze crossed his. _Granting us privacy,_ Finnin concluded with a rush of gratitude. “What happened?”

Her grip on him tightened to levels Finnin suspected would be painful for a man. A good thing she was partial to dwarves, he thought with satisfaction. 

“I’m broken, Finnin.”

Finnin frowned, his gaze flying to her. “That, I’m not believi—”

“I am,” she confessed. “After Gart… Nay, ‘tis no excuse.” Her face contorted. “Anger consumed me. Hatred.” Her eyes darted to him, then they skittered away. “Such hatred, Finnin. It split me in twain. There was me…and there was Akhora.” His skin prickled with alarm. “I can be only one person. Do you understand? What I, Saldís, love, she hates. What she desires is abhorrent to me.”

He could not imagine. But aye, he heard. And aye, he understood. _Her speech patterns have changed._ Further evidence of the break within herself? He’d heard of such things, rare indeed among the Khazâd, where childhood trauma caused rifts in the person. 

“When I thought I’d lost all of you, I let her win. I stopped fighting the storm and let her do as she chose. I didn’t care if the storm claimed us.”

Us. Ice spread through his innards. Mahal. How close had he been to losing her? How imperiled was his Saldís even now? What if it had been Akhora to emerge from the Sea and not his Saldís? He was ill at the thought. 

Finnin’s grip turned unyielding. “You’re here,” he said roughly, also keeping to Khuzdul. Finnin’s gaze captured hers, unwavering. “You’re Saldís.” 

Her lips curled with a mixture of sadness and amusement. “You can thank Bjartur for that,” she said.

“Aye?” 

Her right hand attempted to extricate itself from his clasp, but Finnin was having none of that. He pinned her in place. 

A second smile flashed. “The pendant,” she said. “It brought me back to myself. It reminded me that even if I’d lost the Company, I had Uncle Bombur, his dwarflings, and all of the dwarves under Lord Dwalin’s command depending upon me. No matter how I wished it, I couldn’t give up.”

Finnin vowed to repay that lad when they returned home. _And we will return home._

“There’s more,” she told him, her voice turning uncertain.

Finnin took a deep breath. “Alright.” Another breath. “Alright, hit me. It’s about that Gart, aye?”

Saldís snickered into his hair, the sound such a relief he yearned to kiss her, and no peck, either. Nay, the temptation shuddered through him to snatch her to his chest, bury his hands in her hair, and devour her lips. By Mahal, he wished it more than air.

“Aye and nay,” his lass told him.

“Well, that was clear,” he grumbled teasingly, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Her voice turned sober. “I won’t lie. He hurt me Finnin.” Her attention turned outward beyond them, unseeing. “He _touched_ me.”

Finnin swallowed, rage displacing passion. 

“I thought…” She cleared her throat. “I felt so damaged.” Their embrace strengthened. 

Felt. Past tense. That was a good sign, aye? “What happened?” 

“You did.”

_Eh…what?_

One side of her mouth curled. “You happened,” she whispered, and some part of Finnin held itself absolutely still, certain her words would be of huge importance. He jostled her slightly, demanding her eyes, and she gave them. They burned into his with absolute seriousness. “I don’t know if it was a dream or vision, but you healed me, Finnin.”

“Tell me.”

“We were married,” she told him softly. “With braids in our hair.” Her fingers knotted beneath his grasp. “We were abed together. It should have frightened me, but it didn’t.” A short exhale. Her gaze returned to the vista before them. “I’d never felt so safe.” 

“You’ll always be safe with me, _Bâhzundushuh,”_ he whispered intently. The endearment escaped his lips without thought and earned him her instant attention.

“I know nothing of courting or loving,” she said. “I may be mad. Akhora remains in my mind, threatening to seize control should I ever falter. She is evil, Finnin. She can’t be allowed out.” Her eyes held his steadily. “But if you still wish it—”

“I do,” he growled, not hesitating. If his lass carried an enemy from within, by Mahal, he’d help her win the war against it. He’d never abandon her to fight alone. 

The wild yearning deepened in his chest, and his eyes helplessly caressed her lips. 

It was then his brave lassie showed her mettle. Despite all she’d endured—his soul raged to think of Gart touching her—his warrior woman leaned forward and tentatively sealed his lips with hers. 

Shock was swiftly obliterated by a rush of joy. Finnin kept a tight rein on himself, letting his Saldís set the pace. The wee kisses began both hesitant and curious, his lioness learning her way. But as her confidence grew, the kisses deepened.

Finnin’s control shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. He whipped around in her clasp, never once losing that precious contact of her lips on his. Then it was as he’d needed: his arms locked around her, his hand in her hair, and his lips moving upon hers with boundless hunger. 

She moaned low, her hands fisting around handfuls of his tunic. The sound fired his blood as it had in Brockenborings when she’d delighted in that thrice-cursed meal. 

Mahal. Finnin considered that he could die at this moment and be one happy dwarf.

OoOoOo

Nori sprinted around the elongated rift that was Caeldor’s valley, crashing through spiny bushes with no care for the tracks he left in his wake. Behind him, he could hear Lady Dís pounding across the scorched ground with equal speed.

Saldís had been found. Nori had but heard that from Ranger Thalon’s lips, and he’d been in motion. 

_She’ll be fine,_ he told himself. No matter the harm done her, her Uncle Nori was here to make sure o’ that. 

Images played through his mind. Speculations based upon all he knew. Mahal, would his niece be broken? Or, and this concerned him more, would she be feral from the abuse she’d been subjected to? Both thoughts caused him to fume. Aye, and weep inside. 

_No matter what, I’ll take care o’ her, Umral,_ he promised Bifur. 

In the back of his mind, he recognized that if the Rangers had saved his niece from Caeldor, the Black Company would need to change their plans, and he cursed up a storm over it. He’d never regret her rescue, but by Durin, the Black Company would be little effective holed up in their ruins fending off hordes of riled Black Númenóreans. 

Still, a part of him purred in anticipation. _Let them come. Better open combat than all this sneaking around._ At least then the Khazâd among the Company would have more to do than twiddle their thumbs, waiting while the Rangers worked. 

He neared his destination. There stood The Brothers keeping watch with Anuon and Finnur, all but Anuon looking…abashed? Not worried or sorrowful—a relief, truly—but the lot of them were plainly uncomfortable. A wee grin danced up Anuon’s lips, one that strengthened when the Ranger spied Nori.

_Now what is that ab—?_

Nori skidded to a halt so abruptly that Dís plowed into him with a displeased grunt. Nori’s eyes rounded, and his lips parted. Of all the scenes he’d imagined to be seeing, this hadn’t even ranked last. 

“Nori, what is…” Dís’s words drifted off as she, too, caught glimpse of what was transpiring before their very eyes. Silence stretched between them as Nori’s niece clutched Finnin to her with a passion Nori was a mite…disconcerted…to be seeing. 

A flash of realization brought relief—the mother lode of it, in fact. Nori rubbed his face as the fears that had hounded him many a night were laid to rest. If Saldís could be kissing Finnin as she was, the wounds that filthy worm, Gart, had dealt her were shallower than Nori had dared to hope. 

Bifur would be relieved. Aye, he would. _Once we find him._

Dís chuckled softly. “I believe Finnin is making up for lost time.”

Nori’s lips twitched. “I’ll say this for the lad,” he told his liege lady in a dry voice. “He has skills.” Just how had Finnin managed to not only coax Saldís nearer but woo her so fast? Nori took deep breath, one freer than he’d experienced in days. 

Dís nudged him, a glint of wicked humor in her eyes. “I believe this is yours to handle.”

Nori’s tapping fingers paused upon his thigh. “Eh?”

Dís blinked owlishly. “Dori isn’t here, and this is not altogether proper.” Her sniff perfectly mimicked the stuffier dwarrowdams back home, but amusement sparkled madly in her eyes.

Nori’s lips slowly curled. By the seven dwarf fathers, he appreciated this Durin. His eyebrows climbed as he adopted a right somber expression. He nodded sagely. “Correct you are. This sad duty falls to me. Dori would insist upon it.”

“Absolutely,” Dís said.

Nori snickered under his breath. Dori would be scandalized if’n he were here, true enough, but Nori couldn’t help but be thankful for proof their Saldís had emerged intact. He raged at what had been done to her, but by Durin, their Saldís had fought her way through it. 

His relief wouldn’t stop him from having a wee bit o’ fun with the lovebirds, though.

“That won’t do,” Dís said lightly, one finger tapping his cheek. 

Nori hastily rearranged his features into a black and ominous scowl. With a wink at Dís, he marched forward. Schooling every speck o’ laughter from his voice, Nori rumbled, “Finnin, you misbegotten louse, unhand my niece.”

OoOoOo

That fast, Finnin’s arms were empty as his Saldís sprang across the distance to throw herself into her uncle’s embrace. Finnin let his arms drop, a wry smile tugging at his lips…

…that instantly vanished when he got a glimpse of Nori’s lethal glare. Finnin cleared his throat, cheeks heating. Nori’s pale eyes threatened to flay the skin off his backside, and it did not take one of Finnur’s intellect to know why. 

Finnin had charged well beyond the bounds of propriety by kissing Saldís like that. Such kisses were reserved for betrothal— _Marriage,_ a guilty conscience corrected—but by Aulë’s lifted hammer, what dwarf could resist when his lady kissed him so sweetly after she’d been feared dead? He was a dwarf, not an elf! 

“I’m surprised yer not blue,” Finnur murmured, appearing beside him.

Finnin’s brow wrinkled. “Blue?” he asked. In a bid to save his hide from a thrashing, he pulled the bracelet he’d fashioned for Saldís from his pocket and dangled it so that Nori was sure to see. 

Satisfaction gleamed from Nori’s pale eyes. Aye, and a message. Finnin knew he’d be hearing an earful later. 

_*Wait until Dori gets his hands on you,*_ Nori signed, and Finnin swallowed, his heart skipping a beat. Finnin was giving serious thought to hiding behind his younger brother—pride be hanged—when Nori’s saucy wink ended his rising panic. _*Just you remember who your favorite uncle-by-marriage will be.*_

Chortles rumbled through Finnin’s chest, and he was not ashamed to admit the better part of them were sheer relief. Better to be teased than have Dori after him in truth. A measure of blackmail was acceptable compensation for avoiding that fate.

Nori’s focus shifted to his niece, and Finnin’s to the woman he aimed to marry. By Mahal, she was exquisite. 

_Bâhzundushuh._ She’d envisioned them as wed, and instead of fighting such an outcome, she’d wrapped her arms around him. Aye, and she’d kissed him with enough heat to scorch the hair from his toes. 

He owed Irmo a debt. Dreams, visions, and desires were all Vala Irmo’s providence, and no matter which way Finnin churned it about in his mind, this gift was of Irmo’s making. He shuddered to think what his Saldís’s frame of mind might have been had she not been sent that vision. 

Durin’s beard, he wanted that future. He silently pledged to fight any impediment that stood in his way. Including, he thought with eyes narrowing, Akhora. No one would steal Saldís from him, not even the dark side of herself.

“Blue,” his brother huffed, and for a moment, Finnin could not recall what they’d been discussing. But then Finnur shoved him. “From lack of air, ye lovesick nitwit.”

Finnin’s answering smile was smug, indeed.

OoOoOo

Saldís hugged her uncle with all her strength, reassuring herself that he truly lived. “I thought I’d lost you. I found the Vengeance’s mast, and I thought the Sea had claimed you.”

Nori’s arms closed around her. “Me? I’m too mean for the Sea to want.”

“Nori,” she protested, pulling away. Quieter, “That’s not true, Uncle. Not even close.”

The edge of humor fled from his face, and he drew her forehead to his. “Ye scared us, Saldís.” More roughly, “Jumping into the Sea? I’d paddle you if I didn’t know why you’d done it.”

A tendril of cold wormed its way up her spine. Meeting his gaze, wondering how much black he saw tainting her soul, she asked, “Do you?”

Too much knowledge filled his pale eyes. Too much understanding. Her throat clogged with an answering surge of emotions. 

“How much damage was done you, Saldís?” Nori asked softly in Khuzdul. His gaze slid from hers to one side before returning, a touch of humor restored. “Or need I ask since you let that rascal seduce you?”

“Seduce me?” she echoed, a spurt of humor taking her. 

“Don’t give me that innocent act. I saw it with my own eyes.” She read the grumbling for the teasing it was. 

By Mahal, she was glad he was here. Saldís sniggered, her laughter watery, and grabbed him close once more. “I love you, Uncle,” she said into his hair. “I know I’ve not said it enough.”

Strong arms clasped her tightly. “I’m still going to have a talk with that lad o’ yours,” he warned.

She blinked. “Why?”

“Why?” Nori’s pointed finger poked her. “Dori’s going to have a fit at the impropriety of it.”

Though she had no idea what she’d done that would earn her Dori’s wrath, the forthcoming lecture was easily imagined. “We don’t have to tell him,” she hastily suggested. 

Nori snorted. “As if that would work. Dori has his ways. But hear me, niece o’ mine, until that warrior puts his bracelet on your wrist and braids your hair, there’ll be no more of this kissing business.” Then with a sly grin, a twinkle in his eye, “Though you two did seem to be catching the hang of things quite nicely.”

Saldís tugged upon one of the braids in Nori’s beard, smiling in return. Aye, they had, and she looked forward to more of the same. She now understood what had put that wicked glint in Dís’s eye when the dwarrowdam had spoken of her mate.

Her gaze lifted and swept the area. Nori was here, but others were conspicuous in their absence. “Nori, where’s Adâd?” 

Ice as cold as Forochel crackled up her spine when Nori smirk vanished. “Your adâd and uncles Bofur and Dori remained behind to search for you in Dol Amroth,” he said.

“But?” There was more. It vibrated through the air between them.

“Thannor sent word to them that he’d bring you to us here. Ye know your sire. Naught would keep him away once he read that missive. There may be a logical reason they’ve not joined us, something that tied their hands, but we’ve no way of knowing.” She could see Nori’s frustration over that. The worry that lurked deep within his eyes. 

Then he straightened and reached out to pat her cheek. “Those three are seasoned warriors. They can take care o’ themselves.”

“Even Dori?” she asked. 

“It’s Dori you’re worryin’ about?” Nori clucked his tongue. “I’ll be tellin’ your _favorite_ uncle he’s been displaced.”

A snort escaped her despite the cold knot of fear taking residence in her belly. She shoved Nori. “Oh, stop.”

The ex-thief grinned up at her. Then more seriously, “Trust me on this, niece o’ mine, Dori is the last dwarf you should be worryin’ about.”

A strange assertion, but she recognized that of the two of them, Nori knew Dori best. 

She exhaled slowly. There was nothing she could do for the rest of her family, not at the moment. 

Her thoughts returned to business. As much as she longed to draw out this reunion, time slipped away too quickly. She needed to stop dawdling.

OoOoOo

With a last squeeze of Nori’s arm, Saldís extricated herself from his embrace. A swivel and her attention centered upon her liege lady.

 _Beruthiel’s cats._ Renewed acquaintance with the Duumvirate’s ways made her appreciate Princess Dís all the more even as it also planted pesky seeds of doubt about any who would hold her reins. Dismissing the fool thoughts—and Akhora’s derisive hissing—Saldís bowed perfunctorily. “My lady.”

Dís radiated nobility and gravity despite her travel-worn attire. Slowly, the dam stepped closer. “Letting those men take you was a misjudgment on my part,” Dís said, her blue eyes steady. “I’ve never been so glad to see a soul survive the unsurvivable, Saldís, daughter of Bifur.”

Saldís blinked. None of the events had been of Dís’s doing. Never had she thought to blame the princess. _And never,_ she told her doubts, _would the Duumvirate apologize for any decision they made, no matter how ill advised._ The princess was _nothing_ like them. 

Those nonsensical, niggling fears melted away. “My lady, the blame is not yours. It was my decision.”

Dís snorted, dry humor lighting her eyes. “I believe we’ve had this conversation already. Use my name. We dams must stick together.” A short wave of one hand, and Dís briskly changed the subject. “Report.”

A short, bracing inhale, and Saldís did just that. With Finnin and Nori bracketing her—and Finnur just behind ( _Shielding me,_ she realized)—she told them all that had transpired since her arrival in Caeldor. She recounted her vigilante activities, the emptying of the city of most of Caeldor’s forces, and the absence of a full half of the Six Lords as well as two-thirds of the commanders under them. She shared the challenges these revelations presented, and the urgency driving her because of it. 

Through it all, Dís listened with utmost attention, humming at key points. Saldís noted when Barhador and Thannor arrived, and nodded her greeting to them, but she did not deviate from her dialog. 

Time was a weight pressing in all the harder upon her shoulders with each passing minute. If aught happened to a Novice in her absence, she’d lose the Novices’ trust. If that happened, she didn’t know what she’d do. She could not abandon them.

“Well done,” Dís said after Saldís concluded, the dam’s blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Very well done.” A sharp look from beneath ebony lashes. “You did, however, omit something I am curious about.”

“Yes. Who traveled with you?” Barhador quietly demanded.

A gusty exhale. _Truly? None of them see him?_ She twisted to face the cliff’s edge. Finnin, she saw out of the corner of her eye, grinned, but the others remained oblivious to the wizard’s presence. How, she kept wondering, did Pallando keep managing to do that? She’d never heard tell of Gandalf managing that feat.

“Pallando?” At her summons, the wizard rose from a squat, and the rest of the group finally spotted him. A rumble made its way through their ranks as Pallando strode to them. 

Facing her liege, Saldís said, “Lady Dís, allow me to introduce you to the Blue Wizard, Pallando.”

OoOoOo

Dís’s eyes flared, and her chin dropped with the mountain of thoughts rushing through her head. _Wizard._ It explained much, though to Dís’s knowledge, Gandalf had never traveled with the unnatural speed this one was most certainly responsible for. The question became whether this man could be trusted. Saruman the White’s defection weighed heavily on her mind.

This fellow’s arrival on the scene could be innocent enough, but the timing bothered her. Just how had he located Saldís? Her trust of the Gray Wizard did not blindly extend to others claiming the same office. She’d never heard of any _Blue_ Wizard.

The wild-looking old man bowed to her. Then in perfect Khuzdul, he said in a soft voice, “Pallando the Blue at your service.”

“Who taught you our tongue?” Dís asked harshly, her hackles rising.

Pallando showed no sign of discomfort at her hostility. Nay, his ice blue eyes twinkled down at her with dry humor. “My duties have brought me to treat with the Houses of Gorim, Hathi, and Aikur upon occasion.” 

_Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, and Ironfists,_ she translated in turn. Dís’s brows twitched upwards while inwardly, she was fairly stunned. Then with amusement of her own, “Not the House of Mogan?”

A short shake of the head and a faintly worried expression was his only answer. Shorter on words than Gandalf, this wizard. And, she decided as her eyes scrutinized inch of him, of quite another nature. Gandalf ever had an air of nobility about him, but this wizard seemed as wild and dangerous as the lands around them. _Untamed,_ she summarized. 

His worry, she noted. There was naught she could do if some danger threatened the Stonefoots, but she vowed to inquire after them if her own mission ended in success. _If the Stonefoots bother to collect messages from their designated locations._ None outside their House knew where Stonefoot Halls could be found, so if the lot of them opted to ignore the outside world, it would in turn be forced to ignore them.

Dís tentatively extended trust. Saldís was no fool. Combined with another of the Khazâd deigning to teach this Pallando their tongue, she had two witnesses to his character. 

“I need to get back,” Saldís interrupted.

Her blunt words drew Dís’s full attention. The wizard could wait. 

Dís’s lips quirked. Saldís seemed oblivious to it, but at her words, the three dwarves bracketing her instantly gained an impressive inch or two to their statures. Frustration filled Finnin’s face, and outright denial Nori’s. 

Given the plans underway, Dís was of a mind to agree with their Weapon’s assertion. But in a quiet and steely voice, she said, “Not alone, you are not.”

“Agreed.” Barhador. Absolute finality in his voice. 

Now ‘twas Saldís who thrummed with frustration. “Lady Dís…”

Dís’s lifted hand halted the woman. “I understand the need. I merely state you will not be doing anything more alone.”

“We’re here to help you,” Thannor interjected softly.

A measure of tension stiffened the woman’s slender frame, but after a slow inhale, it melted away with her exhale. _She fights her instinctive distrust,_ Dís concluded with sympathy. A good sign. Dís hadn’t been altogether certain that would be so with the little she knew of all the woman had endured. 

Saldís’s brow furrowed. To her Dunedain relatives, “Thank you.” A frown upon her lips, a hesitation so brief Dís almost missed it, and Saldís’s focus shifted to Nori. “Uncle…” Saldís licked her lips, a truly revealing action for the woman. Then her head shook once, jerky, and her lips flattened. Whatever it was Saldís had intended to say, it was plain to Dís the words were difficult, indeed.

It was then Ranger Anuon burst onto the scene, returning from where he’d positioned himself to keep watch over them. “A patrol,” the fiery-haired man said in clipped tones. “Three Weapons, one Arcanist.”

OoOoOo

Saldís cursed herself for delaying. No, she’d no wish to confess that she harbored an enemy within the confines of her mind, but by Durin, the Company needed to know. Before Akhora—or Saldís’s overwhelming sense of shame—could halt her, she latched onto Nori’s upper arm. In a rush, “I don’t have time to go into the details. Finnin can tell you…”

To which the blond warrior nodded shortly.

“…but I need you alert. I may need you to call me back, Uncle.”

“Call you _back?”_ Nori’s return grasp locked her in place before she could turn away. Pale blue eyes speared into hers with that too-knowing look within them. Aye, and a measure of fear. Nori had a suspicion, and he liked it not at all. “Ye’d best start explaining, Niece. Now.”

“There is no time, Master Dwarf,” Anuon interrupted sharply. “Feline,” he said before loosing an arrow. The cat died on the spot.

_Time’s up._ With such an announcement as that, the patrol was certain to be racing to the Company’s position.

Saldís kissed her uncle’s cheek, then leaned her forehead against his. “I’m safe enough. I swear it. Finnin will tell you what’s happened. Just please, Uncle, listen to him.”

He let her loose, but it was reluctantly done. “You’d best be telling me the truth.” 

“Thannor, Brothers, go with her,” Saldís heard Barhador bark in an undertone.

“We’ll delay them,” Saldís directed to Barhador even as she found herself surrounded by the Rangers named. 

“Be safe,” Barhador said, holding her eyes for a long beat of the heart. ‘Twas like an embrace, telling her how he’d feared for her, how he cared. 

Saldís bobbed her head, swallowing back a sudden knot of emotion in her throat. Then after hastily stealing a kiss from Finnin—’twas entirely too short—she girded herself once more. The scarf returned to cloak her features. Her shoulders straightened. Without a backward glance, she marched towards the oncoming enemy, four Rangers with her.

“Thannor, you’ll have to do the talking,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.

Her shaggy-haired cousin’s cheek twitched. “Suggestions?” Grim green-gray eyes met hers.

“Go on the offensive,” she said. “They attempted to spy on us.”

“Use Umbar,” Erynor suggested from behind them. “If the patrol is of House Sangahyando, by now they must know of Valkthor’s failure.”

What did he mean, use Umbar? And…Valkthor? What had she missed? “What happened in Umbar?” Saldís demanded in a hush, startled. Her head whipped towards the blond-haired Brother. 

“Nori happened,” Berenor answered. He smiled wickedly. Then in a whisper as the patrol came into sight, “Tell you later.”

Aye, she thought. He most certainly would. 

Unfortunately, the team approaching them with weapons unsheathed was not from House Sangahyando. “Herumor,” she identified in a voice almost soundless. 

Thannor inclined his head almost imperceptibly and strode towards the Black Númenóreans without any sign of fear. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Herumor?” he demanded in just the right tone. “Lord Nahlis will hear of this…”

Saldís smirked. By the time Thannor was done with them, House Herumor would be bristling with insult, and the ability of the Houses to work together would be further eroded. 

By Durin, it was good to have the Company at her back. With their help, it was time to do some damage.

She couldn’t wait.


	37. That Fickle Lass Luck

_**11 March TA 3019  
Pelargir** _

One hour in Pelargir, and fate smiled her sultry smile. 

Ib-Valkthor turned the gleaming scimitar over in his hand, ignoring the hostility that radiated from the Captain of the Haven like heat off the Scorched Wastes. His gaze next lifted to the three dwarves mending Pelargir’s damaged western wall along with the Gondorians taken prisoner during Pelargir’s capture. 

A suspicion had taken root. 

Valkthor had never seen a scimitar so exquisite in both appearance and quality. It displayed a mastery of forging that extended so far beyond mere weapons-craft to put Caedor’s armory to shame. The weapon was pure artistry. 

He’d wondered over the weapon. A prize from looting a Gondorian vessel, he’d been told when he’d dared confiscate it from the Corsairs’ leader. Now, he wondered no longer. Malice filled his belly, for well did he recognize two of the misbegotten dwarves from Akhora’s trial in Dale. He’d had ample time to study them through the feline’s eyes.

_She **lives,**_ he seethed. How else to explain those selfsame dwarves here, carrying a weapon of his people? How else explain Umbar? He’d known the port’s loss was no common raid among pirates, but he’d never dreamed another faction had entered the playing field: dwarves.

Did the Duumvirate know? Did Sauron?

His hand fisted about the hilt of the weapon. His instincts told him it was hers. “Were any women captured with the dwarves?” he asked as his green eyes swept the area. No females worked among the prisoners, but likely, they were earning their keep on their backs. 

_As they should._ Valkthor purred to imagine Akhora consigned to that fate. 

“No.” By the shift in the Captain’s body language, Valkthor detected when Javeer transitioned from irritation to sharp-edged curiosity. “Who is this woman you search for?”

Valkthor returned the scimitar to its sheath. Like the blade, it was finely wrought with what he assumed to be dwarvish runes etched into the stiffened leather. “A traitor,” he told the man shortly. “I don’t need to remind you what the Dark Lord and Duumvirate will do to us if you tell me false. No woman was taken and later escaped?”

Javeer shook his head. “There was no woman.” 

Valkthor considered the possibility that the dwarves’ presence was coincidental but discarded it. No. The evidence all pointed to Akhora. Somehow, someway, she had escaped the sentence handed down by Dale’s king. With his focus lingering on one specific dwarf—he who’d claimed to be her father—Valkthor suspected he knew who orchestrated her survival. 

_So what, dear sister, are you up to?_ Revenge, yes. In light of this day’s discoveries, Umbar no longer surprised him. He dredged up his favorite image of her in his mind, that of her dragging her battered and bleeding body away from Tagan’s altar after Thorongil’s massacre of the Corsair fleet. _Two can play this game. And you gave me the perfect weapons to use against you._

Could she be in the area? Her protectiveness towards the dwarves in Dale said she would not willingly let them come to harm. As laughable as it was, she cared for the runts. And that, he swore by the Eye itself, would be her downfall. 

_Alive._ With dark relish, he decided he preferred this to the swift execution she was supposed to have received. He’d accepted it at the time, but in hindsight, he’d fumed that she’d escaped his wrath. This time would be different. Before he was finished, she’d be groveling for death. 

“I will take the sword and the dwarves to Mordor,” he decreed. He’d lure her not to their home lands where she would know the layout, but to the Dark Lord’s seat itself. 

_And I’ll ensure you know where your precious dwarves can be found._ He eyed the dwarf with the ax embedded in his skull with malicious glee. 

“No.”

“No?” Valkthor turned upon the Captain, expression icy. “I am not asking. She will attempt to reacquire the dwarves, and we have no way of knowing how many of the runts she has with her.”

The Captain of the Haven slowly straightened to his full, impressive height. “Or if. You have one sword. It is no proof of an invading force. I intend to have those dwarves for my forges. Accidents happen when traveling, Ib-Valkthor. Sauron will thank me for protecting this prize.” A brittle smile. “The weapons they will forge will be used in his service. By _my_ people.”

Valkthor leashed his temper with difficulty, swallowing back the temptation to blast the insignificant wretch with fire and watch him scream. _One day,_ he promised himself. He would not waste the precious reserves of blood left to him. Not if he had a choice. 

But if the barbarian could not be made to see reason…

“You keep the gray-haired dwarf,” he bargained. “But the other two have ties to the traitor. They come with me. _With_ that scimitar.”

Javeer’s dark eyes did not falter. “My prize. My decision.” A pause, then the Captain’s lips hiked in a smirk. “I’ll give you one. You can even choose the dwarf.”

“Not good enough,” Valkthor growled. 

Muscular, golden-skinned arms crossed before a chest only partly covered by an open vest. Javeer was about to deny him. Valkthor read it upon his face.

_So be it._ Without qualm, Valkthor called a tendril of flame to lick Javeer’s flesh in an area the cur was guaranteed to feel. A subtle reminder of the power at Valkthor’s disposal.

The man’s hands flew to his weapons, and he stood taller, fury upon his face. And caution. In a voice that shook with rage, he spat, “You take two. But not the scimitar.”

Valkthor’s hold on the weapon’s hilt tightened. “The Dark Lord will wish to see examples of this craftsmanship.”

All but spitting the words, Javeer said, “I’ll give your the other weapons we confiscated from them. But that scimitar is mine.” 

With teeth gnashing, Valkthor relinquished the weapon reluctantly, knowing the concession necessary. By the Eye, he’d enjoy the day when this primitive was no longer needed. 

But for now, he’d allow him his way. Valkthor would need Corsairs to accompany him on the journey to Mordor. He could not afford to lose the dwarves, and with Akhora about, he’d take no chances.

OoOoOo

Bofur had been watching the cluster o’ men at the edge of the stone street, aye he had. No one else seemed to pay the new arrivals much mind, and that included his cousin and Dori, but Bofur’s attention had been caught upon spying the behemoth Captain of the Haven. When a black-clad Arcanist joined him, it had remained caught.

Now, Bofur had only managed the barest of glimpses back in Dale, but to his eye, that Arcanist looked mighty familiar. Could that be the warg’s dung, Valkthor? Same hair, same eyes, and aye, the same smirk of smug superiority upon his face. There was somewhat of their Saldís in the man’s appearance, enough to plant a big wad of unease within Bofur’s belly. 

Worse, that Valkthor (if it was he, and Bofur’s eyes were not mistaken) had his hands upon Saldís’s scimitar, and more than once, a deadly green glare went shooting towards himself and Bifur. Bofur feigned obliviousness, but inside, he began to dread where this might lead. 

_This isn’t a good development, Bofur my lad,_ he told himself. _Not at all._

He’d longed for some chance at this lout—and even more his sire, Kimilzor—but this situation left much to be desired. The Corsairs had taken all the dwarves’ belongings up to and including their boots. Walkin’ about in naught but their long johns, they were.

Not how he’d envisioned facing down their foes. 

Some issue of contention arose betwixt the Captain of the Haven and the cretin Bofur increasingly believed to be Valkthor. Green eyes again returned to himself and Bifur. ‘Twas the heralding of a bad turn, Bofur was sure.

He spat a choice curse under his breath. If luck had been with him, the wretch would not have recognized Bofur without his hat—a hat Bofur intended to reclaim from the thieving Corsair wearing it even now. But luck was a fickle lass and had deserted them aboard that wee Gondorian ship. 

With forced nonchalance, he set the boulder he carried into place within the breech in Pelargir’s western wall. Beyond it, green grasslands stretched in all directions. Only by smoke upon two places on the horizon did he know of Gondorian villages being set afire by these dastardly invaders. 

Anger filled him. Aye, and sorrow. 

He took longer than strictly necessary to lodge his burden into place, waiting until a grunting Dori heaved his own load next to it. “Be ready,” Bofur whispered to him. “If aught happens, ya old fuss pot, escape and protect our Saldís. You hear me?”

“What?” Dori’s head whipped his way.

Bofur said grimly, “Don’t look now, but that Captain of the Haven is treating with none other than our Saldís’s half brother. _Ssst!_ I said don’t look.”

Dori’s face hardened. What he would have said, Bofur never learned, for in the next instant, the Captain of the Haven barked out orders. Corsairs surged into the prisoners’ midst, pushing men from their paths. Bofur and Bifur were collected and marched to the Arcanist himself.

What Bofur had surmised, a closer look confirmed: Valkthor. _Mahal._

“Well, well, such a pleasant surprise,” Valkthor said as Bifur was shoved to stand beside Bofur. As sweaty as himself, his cousin was, and Bofur waggled some fingers, hoping to attract Bifur’s attention so as to warn him of the cretin’s identity. Bifur’s eyes were too blank for him to have realized, but then, Bifur’s attention had been on Saldís when they’d encountered the Black Númenóreans in Dale. Like as not, this Arcanist had not received even a cursory inspection from Bifur. 

“Where is Akhora?” Valkthor asked in a voice that sent shivers through Bofur’s spine. That and molten anger through his veins. If this Valkthor thought he’d get anything about their Saldís out of the Khazâd, he was sadly mistaken.

OoOoOo

Bifur stood absolutely still.

This Arcanist— _Commander,_ he amended, spying the fourth onyx earring—believed his Saldís in the area? Icy fear brushed across his innards. _The scimitar,_ he realized. ‘Twas the only explanation, and Bifur cursed himself for the grossest fool for keeping it with him. 

“Where?” the Arcanist barked.

Bifur spat in his face. 

Sudden, excruciating pain seared the tender flesh behind his knees, wrenching a garbled cry from him. Bifur’s legs gave out, dropping him on his arse. Distant shock clanged to see his long drawers smoking. _Durin’s blessed ax._ He slapped out the smoldering edges to the new holes in his drawers. If he’d not been born of the Khazâd, Bifur suspected the attack would have crippled him for life. 

Anger flared. _The coward._ His glare lifted to the Arcanist looming over him.

Until Bofur’s subtle wiggle of the fingers. _*Valkthor,*_ his cousin signed. 

“Now,” the man said, nudging Bifur with his boot. “I will ask one more time. Where. Is. Akhora?”

This was Valkthor? The worm who’d tried to murder Nori and see his Saldís executed? 

Bifur’s fist plowed into the man’s belly with all his strength. No paltry burn would stop him.

A dozen or so Corsairs, however, were another matter.

OoOoOo

Bofur did not hesitate. He threw himself into the fray in defense of his cousin. And just as fast, he too found himself sandwiched against the hard, uneven street pavement with a score o’ riled Corsairs atop him, the lot of them shouting and kicking at him. Though he fought wildly, one by one his limbs were chained.

A sharp whistle sounded immediately after the last shackle snapped closed. He was dragged to his feet to stand before the Captain of the Haven and a thunderous—aye and pained—Valkthor. _Ye won’t be underestimating a dwarf’s fist ever again, will you, lad?_

Bifur was summarily dumped at Bofur’s feet, and Bofur’s body quivered to see how battered his cousin looked. And scorched. That Valkthor had not been passive while Corsairs beat on Bofur’s cousin. 

“Touch me again, dwarf, and I will leave your companion’s smoking body hanging from the ramparts for Akhora to find. I don’t require both of you,” Valkthor hissed. A black boot rammed into Bifur’s hip, and Bofur surged against his bonds to retaliate.

The chains halted him well out of reach. “Leave him alone, ye _kark kûd.”_ (raven dung) 

Slender fingers clamped about Bofur’s jaw like a vice. “First lesson. _I_ am in charge. You would do well to remember it. _You,_ dwarf, are expendable.” 

With a mute little whoosh, every bit o’ air seemed to fly out of Bofur’s nostrils and mouth of its own accord. _Mahal._ Well did he remember Nori’s conclusion back in Thorin’s Hall. The only way to handle an Arcanist was to find him…and kill him.

Well, Bofur thought. He’d done the finding, but what if a dwarf could not accomplish the killing? _Ye forgot a point or two, Nori._

As he gasped for air that wasn’t there, Bofur thanked every hair on Nori’s head that the thief was not with them. Saldís would not easily recover the loss of adâd and her uncles, and that looked a world more likely with Valkthor in the picture.

Nay, better that Nori and Bombur remained far, far from here. For her sake.

_Take care of our lass, Nori._

Bofur’s sight dimmed, blackening around the edges. Again and again, he tried to inhale, but there was naught to be found. His lungs could not expand, no matter how he struggled. His chest burned with the effort. 

_Unnatural._ ‘Twas a terrifying way to die, and that was a fact, but he refused to cower or plead. Instead, Bofur forced his weakening knees to lock. With a proud lift of the chin, he glared at the Arcanist he could vaguely discern through his darkening sight. 

As suddenly as it had begun, the assault ended. Air returned, and Bofur gulped it into his lungs, staggering with exquisite relief. 

A cold smile lifted the _ugrad’s_ lips. “Such loyalty. Such bravery,” Valkthor said in a voice dripping with mockery. “I hope it extends towards my sister. It will make things all the sweeter when she comes for you.”

Valkthor intended to use them against Saldís? Bofur would have blanched had he time and sufficient air in his lungs. His eyes sought Bifur’s, but rough hands prodded both dwarves into motion. 

In less than two shakes, Bofur found himself tossed onto the back of a horse like a chained sausage. Bifur, too. A dozen Corsairs claimed their own steeds, and Valkhtor a bird-like creature Bofur decided must be an _emala._

Bofur caught one last glimpse of Dori before the Corsairs spurred their steeds into flight, pulling Bofur’s mount behind them. The eldest Ri stood red of face. Both hands were fisted at his sides, and his eyes were hard as steel. 

Bofur had seen that look but once before on Dori’s face. If’n his plight hadn’t been so dire, he’d have spared a thought to pity the men left to guard the older dwarf.

OoOoOo

_  
**Ruins of Dol Hamoth, Tovennen**  
_

Dís followed the wizard as he slipped from one of Dol Hamoth’s ancient and narrow halls. For long hours, the Company had spoken, first introducing Pallando to each of the other members of the Company, then debating on how to proceed. 

In the end, they’d reached a stalemate. After Caeldor’s demise was ensured, no one quite knew what to do with the children. With Mahal’s blessing, some mayhap would be won over by their Saldís’s actions. But the others?

“Wizard,” Dís called in a hush, loping after him before he could descend the stairs down into the sunlit valley below. 

The robed man halted at the top landing, staff at his side and face pointed outward. 

Dís joined him, stepping to his right. “The truth, Wizard,” she said. “What is the likelihood of winning the Novices?”

Unlike Gandalf, he didn’t stroke his beard as he mulled over his words. Nay, this wizard remained absolutely still. His voice was soft as he said, “Some will be wooed. Saldís displays the first kindness and concern they have ever seen. She risks herself on their behalf, and they know it.” Ice blue eyes slid Dís’s way. “It will be as water to one dying of thirst.”

“But?”

A rigidness stole over his face. “At some point, she will be betrayed. She knows it. The lure of power, or fear, will prove too tempting.”

Dís’s chin dipped. She’d recognized the risk in Saldís’s actions, but hearing it labeled as doomed to end in betrayal did not sit well with her. Her jaw hardened. Like the wizard, Dís saw no other option, but by Durin, she’d be speaking to Barhador about this. Dís refused to sacrifice the woman. 

Pallando spoke, interrupting her thoughts. “To wield arcane powers requires embracing Shadow. Did you know this?”

Fingers of unease danced down Dís’s spine. “What do you mean? Speak plain, Wizard.”

Pallando pivoted to face her, smooth as an elf. “The Arcanists have no innate ability for magic. The Duumvirate does not assign children such learning based upon aptitude, for it is not a skill with which men were endowed.”

Dís’s eyes narrowed. Her body stilled. “Go on.”

“They choose Novices based upon one thing alone: darkness of soul.”

“I refuse to believe there is no hope for those children,” Dís said lowly. “That they are irredeemably lost.”

Pallando reacted by not so much as the blink of an eye. He merely stared down at her, and frustration rose in her breast. Gandalf would understand and sympathize. This wizard was not their genteel and kindly Gray Wizard, and that was a fact. She cared not how skilled he might be with the weapons he carried. He was not Gandalf’s equal in her sight. 

A full minute of terse silence passed before the wizard spoke. “You speak as one of the North.” Once again he faced outward. 

“What does that mean?” she demanded, bristling.

“It means, Princess Dís of the Line of Durin, you have not lived in lands ruled by Shadow since before the founding of your Khazâd-dum. You have not witnessed the sacrifice of newborn babes and toddlers by their own parents.” His voice turned ragged. “Too many, my lady. Far too many have died horrible deaths in rites embraced by Varaig and Haradrim alike. Children alive and screaming as their own mothers happily toss them onto burning altars dedicated to the Darkness.”

_Mahal._ ‘Twas Dís who turned away this time, one hand to her belly. Had a foe held blades to the throats of Dís’s father, brothers, and mate, she’d never have done the same to her sons. Never. How could a mother permit such an atrocity, much less participate? 

“That type of evil, or the seed of it, is a requirement for one to become a sorcerer.”

Dís rubbed her forehead. “So we abandon them? Slay them?” she said in a hoarse voice, appalled at what she was hearing. _I’ll not do that._ And swift on its heels, _Nor will Saldís._ Despite Finnin’s disturbing revelation of Saldís’s struggle with the Akhora side of herself, Dís had confidence in her Longbeard warrior woman. Aye, Akhora might not care about the children, but Dís knew Saldís did. 

“No,” Pallando said with a sigh more burdened than any Gandalf had uttered. Her resentment at the wizard faded with dawning understanding. This wizard had lived in a land of atrocities. By his own admission, he’d walked among these peoples for thousands of years. What must that be like? What had he seen in his long life?

The wizard continued, “No, we cannot do either.” A bittersweet smile lifted his lips. “We fight the Darkness in every manner we can. But containing a hundred child Arcanists is a feat beyond my skills, my lady. Even should we strip them of the blood vials they carry, we must expect some to cut themselves to access their magics. I am sorry.” 

Once more he looked to the vista beyond them. “Perhaps the elves in their strength could have barred them from calling upon their unnatural powers, but even exiled to these lands as I am, I know the elves are departing Middle Earth for the Undying Lands. All but the Avari, and they are of a different nature from their kin to the North. They never beheld the light of the Two Trees nor felt the call of Valinor.”

_Which rules the elves out._ Prior to meeting Lord Círdan and his people, Dís would never have considered them to begin with. Now, regret touched her to imagine a land devoid of elves. “What of us?” Dís asked. 

“Hmm?” Pale eyes returned to her. 

Dís prayed Dwalin would not murder her for the suggestion she was about to make. “We of the Khazâd were fashioned differently. We are a sturdier people.”

She found herself under intense scrutiny. “Even your people can be burned, drowned, or suffocated by sorcery.”

“Aye,” she said with a burst of nervous energy. She paced a short circuit along the landing. “True enough, but we can withstand such attacks longer than men. Long enough to break the child’s concentration and end the attack.”

“True, true.” Pallando’s staff whipped in a short, abrupt circle that halted as fast as it had begun. A rote action, Dís surmised. Pallando asked, “Your people would take on such a challenge?”

A sizable majority would balk at what Dís was about to suggest. _Mutiny, more like,_ a part of her drawled. Her people were seclusive and well she knew it. Suspicious, even. Obstinate and judgmental, too. 

But once a dwarf decided to see something done, there was no shaking him. Mayhap she was biased, but she deemed there was no more faithful a people walking upon Arda. 

Khazâd birth rates had fallen over the centuries, and not only those of her House. Children were cherished all the more because of it. Even the grouchiest dwarf would take up arms in objection to the obscene notion of permitting an entire group of man-children to be abandoned or condemned. 

“If we were to separate the children training as Arcanists,” she broached slowly, her mind working feverishly. “Surround them with new families that will correct them, aye, but gently…” Her head tilted to one side, bringing Pallando into view. “There will be danger, and there will be heartbreak. In my heart I know it.”

Pallando slowly nodded. “Not all will permit themselves to be saved. Still, it could work. For the youngest Arcanists, most certainly. But you will never succeed in separating them and getting them to your Halls in the North without more help than I can provide.”

It was then a conversation from months before returned to her. Dís’s lips slowly lifted in a dangerous grin. By Durin, she was ready to _do_ something. And this, she would enjoy. 

“Tell me, Wizard,” she asked lightly. “Just how fast can you travel?”

OoOoOo

_  
**Dol Amroth**  
_

Prince Imrahil and his sons mounted their destriers, the horses grunting at the sudden burden of heavily armored men. All around them, the stone courtyard and surrounding streets filled with men mounted and awaiting Imrahil’s command.

With his steed prancing beneath him, Imrahil’s attention turned to the black-haired beauty standing at the base of the palace’s exterior stairs. Only by the fingers twisted at her waist did she betray her anxiety. 

“Dol Amroth is yours to command, my daughter. Inaron will remain to advise you,” Imrahil said in a voice pitched to carry. He wanted there to be no question as to who had left the maiden in charge.

_Eru have mercy._ His daughter suddenly grew younger in his sight. Instead of a slender maiden, he saw a young girl with a sleek mane of black hair, gray eyes, and a doll in her hand. The fancy faded, returning him to the present. 

_Protect my daughter,_ he prayed, hoping the Valar would hear and answer. Lothiriel was well prepared for this challenge—all of his children were—but he was loath to leave this burden to her. He was leaving for war, and worse, taking all of her brothers with him.

By Lothieriel’s side, Inaron pressed one hand to his heart. A silent promise to watch over her.

“This city will hold,” Lothiriel told Imrahil, her chin lifting. “I will guard our lands well in your absence.”

_Ulmo grant war not arrive here before my return._ If he survived to return.

A short nod, and he spun his horse about. With a shout, he led the bulk of Dol Amroth’s Swan Knights down the main thoroughfare and out the gates.

They rode to Minis Tirith. And war.

OoOoOo

_  
**Caeldor, Tovennen**  
_

Ar-Tagan prowled Caeldor’s sunlit streets in search of answers, his steps carefully measured and his mood so far beyond incendiary to defy labeling. Silence followed him. Slaves gasped at the look upon his face and scurried away. That, or they dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to the pavement. 

The black edge of his temper threatened to spill over into outward violence upon them, but with regret, Tagan kept a firm hand on his own reins. The slaves were insignificant, little more than animals in his sight, but by the Eye, the Black Númenóreans needed them. Tagan could not spare Weapons or Novices to cook meals or do the city’s laundry. 

No, like it or not, Caeldor depended upon slave labor to function. If he required souls to writhe upon his altar, he could not look in the slaves’ direction. Already, their numbers were lower than acceptable. 

His attention shifted among the dozens of eyes spreading throughout the city—those of the feline spies marked with his symbol. No more was an animal permitted to roam Caeldor’s streets without the stamp of its Arcanist’s identity affixed to a collar. Such freedom had been forbidden by Tagan himself in an effort to quell the widespread destruction of their animal resources.

Many eyes followed Tagan’s felines, and despite the caution with which each cat was greeted, they had stumbled upon an odd…irregularity. He had not acted—yet—but his cats reported whispered tales among Novices. The brats spoke in hushed voices, arguing amongst themselves of a secret protector. He’d even heard one claim that Novices destined for the Den or selected as a plaything for Tagan’s troops had been saved. A handful truly believed that anyone who dared attempt sentencing a Novice to either fate met his end swiftly.

He fingered his pendant. Childish stories? Or was there more to this? 

His eyes slitted. A worm of unease slithered through his belly, quickly eradicated by cold calculation. If one of the remaining Lords or commanders thought to subvert Novices to his side with the aim of undermining Tagan sufficiently that the Dark Lord would slay him… 

An unusual tactic, and a brilliant one. It stood a reasonable chance of success without exposing the mind behind it to unmasking and direct confrontation. With the majority of Caeldor’s Arcanists and Weapons en route or already stationed in Mordor, Novices outnumbered them all, a fact that had never worried Tagan until now. 

_It would have to be an Arcanist._ Ar-Cavendor was safely beyond the reach of this plot, so the Weapons here had nothing to gain if Tagan fell. That removed Lord Sangahyando from his list of suspects, leaving Tagan with two premier candidates: Ar-Aemazia of House Berúthiel and Ar-Kavish of Herumor. 

_Or one of the Arcanist commanders._ A lesser possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.

So. A counter strike was in order. Tagan had not reached a seat on the Duumvirate by talent alone. No one did. It was the ability to scheme, to envision all potential options and their ramifications before acting. 

Tagan’s lips twisted in a smirk. He’d order Hand Guitan to collect a Novice, the more innocent and helpless the better, and bring him to Tagan at his altar. Guitan was the single most dangerous soul in Caeldor, a fact that had worried Tagan early in his reign. 

For whatever reason, however, Guitan never sought more than to be a Hand and Arcanist, a fact Tagan would never understand, but a truth with seventy years to back it up. A dangerous servant to retain, but one equally perilous to eradicate. 

If the Novices had acquired a rogue protector, Guitan would eviscerate the fool. _If_ he dared reveal himself. Should the man hide himself as Tagan anticipated he would, the Novices would turn upon their so-called protector in unison when Tagan executed the child. 

He cackled, a new idea forming. _No._ Nothing so blase. All of Caeldor would witness this child’s death. _A spectacle, one as terrifying and bloody as I can contrive._ One that would squash the infighting among his people. A demonstration they would never forget. 

Tagan wielded the power of life and death over all of Caeldor. It was past time to remind Caeldor’s citizens of the fact.


	38. Out of the Pot and into the Fire

_**12 March TA 3019  
Barad-Dúr, Mordor** _

Atop a looming ebony tower, a lidless eye wreathed in flame looked to the north with avarice and greed. An Age of plotting, and finally, pieces were moving into position.

Far beyond its sight, Easterlings neared the banks of the River Carnen. The pitiful kingdoms of Dale and Erebor would find themselves overrun within the week, while just south of those lands, Sauron’s forces within Dol Guldur prepared to march on the Woodland Realm in a matter of days. 

Lorien had repelled the first assault upon its borders, an event anticipated by the Dark Lord. More assaults would come, each designed to test the Galadhrim’s defenses and wear down the elf witch protecting them. Long had her powers kept his Shadow at bay. Long had he hungered for the day when she broke. 

Soon. Soon, she would be at his mercy. They would _all_ be at his mercy. 

His hatred for the elves had endured his first death undiminished. They would fall, their wretched songs and light crushed beneath the heel of his army. 

And Gondor? The Heir of Isildur would never sit on the Throne of Men. Old fury caused the Eye to flame hotter. Even now, Shadow stretched across the heavens towards the White City, blotting out the sun. A black flood of trolls, orcs, wargs, and men marched beneath its shade to the beat of drums. Each pound of the percussion demarcated the dwindling amount of time before the siege would begin. 

He’d elected to utilize pawns for each war effort. Expendable pawns. The anticipated foe, sure to lull each kingdom into a false sense of confidence that they knew what to expect. 

Only once each kingdom had expended the bulk of its arsenal would he unleash his surprise upon them—his other, deadlier force. Yes, soon the Black Númenóreans would join the fray, and when they did, Middle Earth would fall.

OoOoOo

_  
**Pelargir**  
_

Dori labored beside his fellow prisoners, watchful for any opportunity to escape. 

He was one riled dwarf, and that was a fact. Whilst Bifur and Bofur were being carted off to Mordor, _he_ was stuck playing the beast of burden. His mind filled with visions of what his friends were sure to encounter, and his fury climbed higher to know he wouldn’t be there to face this newest peril with them. 

Bofur’s hat had been lifted above Pelargir’s main gates, displayed for Saldís should she happen across the scene (which Dori fervently hoped she wouldn’t). Sight of it would distress her, that Dori recognized, and Bifur’s spear, too, which had been used to pin hat and note to her above Pelargir’s wooden gates, doubtless informing her of her adâd and uncle’s fate. 

That this ploy had no chance of working—not with Saldís either in Haradrim lands or accompanying Thannor to Tovennen—didn’t matter one bit. Such an underhanded attack just boiled Dori’s blood further. 

The anger must have been what brought a dormant fragment of Nori-like obstinacy hiding in his blood to life. Instead of sensibly keeping his head low and quietly going about his business like the other slaves, Dori took perverse glee in hefting boulders bigger than five men could carry and lugging them on his shoulders to Pelargir’s damaged wall.

Sheer, cussed orneriness, it was, and he’d readily admit it. But by Durin’s beard, he savored the aghast looks that sprang up on Corsair faces each time he shouldered such a weight without visible effort. 

He was neither aged nor infirm, thank you very much. He was a dwarf, a descendant of Durin, and they’d best not be forgetting it.  
It was as he tossed his latest load into place—the gap in the wall was well nigh sealed now—that a ruckus towards Pelargir’s smaller, western gates drew not just his attention, but that of all of his fellow prisoners. 

“Now what?” he heard one of the sailors from the White Arrow ask. Luthil, he was called. The fellow stepped to Dori’s side, his lanky frame sweaty and his dark hair slick to his skull. Like all of the captives, he wore naught but grimy breeches and the dirt of hard labor.

“Anything that disturbs these vermin can only be a good thing,” another of the Dol Amrothians said in a low and angry voice. Dathan, Dori identified when the sandy-haired, compact man also stepped into the periphery. 

“Sure about that?” Luthil countered.

Mounted Corsairs clattered past the prisoners on lathered and winded horses. Babbling between each other, the new arrivals were, and spouting nonsense about losing the town of Ethring in northwestern Lebennin.

A lost town? That was good news to Dori’s mind, but the rest of what followed was rubbish. An army of ghosts? The louts must have been imbibing since sun up to be so sotted. _Or they’re attempting to save their own skins,_ he thought with a dismissive snort. Surely even Corsairs wouldn’t believe such a heap of hogwash. 

As the arrivals hurried through their explanations to the ranking Corsairs nearby, the story grew wilder. Riding at the front of the army, to hear them tell it, was a man accompanied by a dwarf, three elves, and men of noble bearing. A man bearing the very likeness of none other than…

“Thorongil?” Luthil said, his attention never leaving the nearest cluster of Corsairs. “They are addled. Thorongil must be in the grave by now.”

Dori roughly ruffled his own hair. Nay, Thorongil— _Aragorn_ —was far from that. The Dunedain chieftain was still in his prime according to Barhador and his Rangers. 

Dori lent the Corsairs’ story more credence. Oh, the notion of ghosts was naught but superstitious nonsense and…

His thoughts halted like the hammer upon the anvil as a memory returned. _Dunharrow._ Saldís had told them about the army of wraiths waiting under that mountain. Dori had dismissed it as myth at the time, but now, the hairs upon his arms prickled. _In the White Mountains,_ he recalled. 

Which put the Dunharrow…not far…from… 

He swallowed heavily. Ghosts. According to the Rangers, their Chieftain was Isildur’s Heir, and heir to the throne of Gondor. Had the man dared wake the dead? 

He tugged upon his beard. If they were headed here, Dori little wished to stick around. The very idea of such an army gave him the willies, and he was not ashamed to admit it. When dwarves died, they had the good sense to stay that way, thank you very much. 

The day progressed, and more pirates poured into Pelargir from western Lebennin. White of eyes, all of them, a sentiment Dori was more and more inclined to share. Who could harness the dead? What if the thrice-accursed wraiths slayed them all? 

When the sun reached its zenith, the Captain of the Haven ordered Dori and his fellow prisoners returned to the central courtyard overlooking Pelargir’s docks—ironically right beneath the watchful eye of the statue of Thorongil himself (had the Corsairs not decapitated it). There, the Gondorians and one dwarf were shackled in place. Naught but minutes later, Pelargir’s women and children joined them and were added to the lines of chains. 

“A dwarf?” a painfully thin girl-child sniffled as she huddled into the embrace of a man of Pelargir. Watery hazel eyes stared at Dori with unabashed curiosity. 

As more children’s eyes turned his way, Dori set his own worries aside and mustered up a kindly smile for them. There was naught to be done about possible ghosts, but he could help ease the wee one’s fear. “Caught in the same net as yourself, I’m afraid,” he told them. 

Then lower, “Don’t you go giving up hope. We’ll get through this. You’ll see. Why, my kin and I escaped from the very dungeons of the Elvenking himself.” He nodded somberly. “Aye, it’s the truth. I daresay these Corsairs are not nearly so formidable.” He added a wink and earned a tremulous smile for his efforts. Aye, and a grateful nod of the head from the young man bearing striking resemblance to the lass. A brother, he presumed. 

Unencumbered by the need to devote more than a handful of guards to watch the prisoners, the Corsairs bent the full of their attention to fortifying their stolen port. More of the louts appeared on Pelargir’s ramparts with spyglasses in hand while below, their fellows rushed to and fro like so many chickens in Dori’s sight. 

_Undisciplined cowards,_ he sniffed. Dori understood the air of fear enveloping them—truth be told, he was inclined to share in it—but what use such panic? To keep the young ones (and himself) from succumbing to it, too, Dori clapped his hands lightly and in a bright voice said, “How about a story?”

OoOoOo

_  
**Ruins of Dol Hamoth, Tovennen**  
_

“Yer doing _what?”_ Nori’s mouth gaped so wide, it was a wonder a swarm of flies did not take up residence therein. 

Dís smirked but did not halt. The chat with Pallando had resulted in a potential sliver of opportunity, and by Durin’s ax, she’d not let is pass. Twenty-four hours had passed while she’d waited for Pallando to ready himself, and her determination had grown with it. An emissary would not suffice. If there was to be any hope of success and a solution to the youngling problem once Caeldor fell, it was Dís who would need to wrestle it into being. 

They had denied her brother, but by Durin, they would not deny _her._

“Dís, you cannot just leave,” Nori objected. “No. I’ll not stand for it.”

_Is that so?_ Her lips curved. Nori should have known better, having traveled with Thorin as he had. Durins did not respond well to ultimatums.

On her knees, Dís shoved the last of her belongings into her travel bag. She sealed it shut, her head panning, searching until she found the dwarf she was looking for. “Gather your things, Dár. You are coming with me.”

Mutters broke out among the rest of her dwarves, and glowers turned Dís’s way. Aye, well, she’d expected this would be the response she’d get. 

“Yer going nowhere without me,” Nori said, his firm tone belied by the worry roiling in his pale eyes. 

“You are needed here,” Dís replied tartly. Then with a sweet smile directed upwards at him, “You have a niece who needs you.” Dís gained her feet and hoisted her pack atop the sword already strapped across her back. In an altogether different tone of voice, Dís informed the ex-thief, “We’re taking the wizard with us, too.”

“But—”

“No buts, Nori.” Her free hand grasped his shoulder and bestowed a short, solid shake. 

By Mahal, she wished Barhador had returned. She hated to leave without warning him, but time poured through her fingers like sand. She could not help but fear disaster should she delay an hour longer. 

No, she had to get moving, and fast. It was simply ill timing that had the Rangers absent just when Pallando finished his preparations for the grueling journey ahead. 

“Dwalin will kill me,” she heard Nori mutter. 

Was that what was bothering him? “Cheer up,” Dís said, clapping him on the arm. “There is a good chance none of us will survive this endeavor.”

“Then _Thorin_ will kill what’s left of me,” Nori snapped. “With Frerin and Vili there to help him!”

Dís grinned at that image, but her smile faded as the old, familiar pain of loss flared to life. By Mahal, to see Vili and her Kíli and Fíli once more… Death could never hold terror for her knowing they waited at the end of her life’s journey.

Not that Dís would ever submit to death. She was a Durin, and she’d go down fighting to the last. 

‘Twas then that Lord Hlein and the others converged around Dís and Nori, the lot of them forming an impenetrable wall around her. By the cock of his head, Dár betrayed he kept close attention, but the aged hunter continued in methodically assembling his gear, sparing the spectacle a low snort. He asked no questions, and Dís hadn’t expected him to.

“Dís, what’s this about?” Hlein asked with bushy brows low. All around her, bearded faces frowned with unanimous accord. A number mimicked the dwarf lord, folding thick arms across their chests. 

Warmth and amusement displaced grief. Surely no ruler had ever had such a great-hearted people. Though she’d lost her family, Dís had never been forsaken or alone. 

_Let this plan make the difference,_ she prayed. _Mahal, let me succeed. For my people._ It would do irreparable harm to these stout souls should she fail and they find themselves fighting children without recourse. 

“I’ll make this brief,” she told them. “I aim to secure us a measure of much needed aid.” Then with a wicked-edged smile, “And I’m leaving Nori in charge.”

OoOoOo

Nori had yet to recover from Dís’s horrifying proclamation when then dam in question mounted one of the _emala_ the Black Company had procured in Umbar. The lush foliage clogging up the narrow valley at the base of the ruins swayed with a hot afternoon breeze, and a frond batted the dwarf in the face. He tore it from its moorings with a low snarl before once again directing his attention at the dam before him.

She was really doing it. Leaving him in charge.

“Dís,” Nori tried for the eighth—or was it ninth?—time.

“No, Nori,” the dwarrowdam said. The last vestiges of humor fled from her Durin blue eyes as she stared down at him from the lofty height of her mount’s feathered back. “Hlein may yet have to play the prisoner should Saldís need to openly return to Caeldor. He can’t be left in charge.”

Nori growled under his breath. He little wanted this responsibility, but how could he refuse when she sat there looking so confident in him. He’d sooner hack off his own left foot than deny a Durin, and blast her beard, Dís had to know it. There was not a single member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield that would not lay his life down at this dam’s whim—for Thorin’s sake, aye, as well as the for the dam herself. 

The _emala_ beneath her made the queer chirruping noise Nori had learned to associate with the birds when the ill-tempered pests were in a rare good mood. _Traitor,_ he thought at it. 

“You will convey my apologies to Barhador for departing like this?” Dís asked, drawing his glare from the _emala._

“Aye,” he said with little grace. “Since ye leave me no choice.” 

Somber eyes met his. “This has to be done.”

He knew that. He was not blind. It did not change the fact that he did not care to have their Durin rushing off into potential danger with only one hunter and one wizard at her side. Nor did he much care to have the wizard called away when Saldís might need him. 

_Quit your grousing,_ he could hear Dori say. _What’s done is done._ As usual, his brother had the right of it.

The ex-thief fiddled with his favorite dagger, his jaw hard. _So much can go wrong, Thorin. But you know your sister better than all of us. There’s no swaying her when her mind’s set._

Too soon, wizard, dam, and hunter kneed their _emala_ into a land-devouring run that put ponies and horses to shame. All eyes panned Nori’s way, Hlein’s dancing with amusement. 

Nori tossed him a sour look in return. Dori, he thought, would suffer heart palpitations if he ever learned of this. Nori in charge? _Nori?_

Nori’s lips twitched with reluctant humor. Alright then. Dís had handed this task to Nori. He would do his liege lady proud or die tryin’. 

A bracing inhale. A gusty exhale. Then with shoulders back, he turned first to Hlein. “You have all you need to play prisoner?” 

The older lord nodded shortly. “That I do. With your permission…” Nori snorted at the smirking dwarf lord's bow, but Hlein barreled on. “…I’ll grab provisions and rejoin Finnin outside of Caeldor.”

Nori nodded. “Take Ragan with you. If the Rangers are still sneaking about pilfering weapons and gear from Caeldor, he can take over watch so that the Rangers can focus on that.” 

Hlein bobbed his head in agreement before sprinting back up the narrow stairs into Dol Hamoth. 

To Finnur next, Nori said, “What help do you need to finish your projects?” The sooner they unleashed Finnur on the unsuspecting enemy, the happier Nori would be. He little cared for the risks his niece and the Dunedain were taking, and he wanted them done. The sooner the better.

OoOoOo

__  
**Caeldor, Tovennen  
House Vinuir**

Novice Yahzin strapped blades, whip, and garrote to her belt, her actions perfunctory. Once armed with standard weapons, she plaited her long blond hair into a single thick braid, carefully weaving blades into its length. Since the night of the attack, she didn’t shirk any precaution.

Throughout this, the second story of House Vinuir’s barracks, whispers abounded. Gossip. Games that were fumbling mimicry of what Novices witnessed between their elders. While outwardly, her face betrayed all the emotion of an undisturbed pool of water, chaotic thoughts buffeted her in all direction, and for once it had nothing to do with the squabbles among her fellow trainees. 

Ib-Akhora lived. The one commander Weapons had competed to serve under. The one who’d never treated her warriors like fodder or smiled to their faces while plotting to dagger them in the back the second their guard dropped. Oh, she had been reputed to be an exacting taskmaster. War was her business, and she excelled at it. She did not _care,_ but she did not bother with games common to the rest of their people. 

If it had been any other commander who’d told Yahzin what Akhora had, she’d have chalked it up to a Test and dismissed it. But with Akhora, she couldn’t quite reject the dangled lure so easily.

_She’s a filthy traitor,_ a part of her spat.

_Is she,_ another countered. _What price would you pay for freedom?_ No Hands watching. No Weapons or Arcanists hunting unwary Novices in the dark.

_Freedom and safety do not exist! She lied to you. She must have._

Except Akhora didn’t _do_ that. By all accounts, she announced your doom if you displeased her…and then set about destroying you. 

With every clash of conflicting arguments, Yahzin’s fury climbed, and she blamed it all on the woman who’d done this to her. _Turn her in. Turn her in,_ chanted through her head. Yahzin knew full well the price she’d pay should any figure out Yahzin held this knowledge and didn’t report it. 

Her lips sealed tighter, locking in the words of betrayal. If she truly had Ib-Akhora’s sword to defend her back…

_It’s a lie!_

One she longed to believe. Yahzin was tired. So very, very tired. The fight to survive…Sometimes she wondered if it was worth it. 

_Your choice,_ she kept hearing Akhora say. _Your choice…your choice…your choice._ In one thing alone did Yahzin hold confidence—if Ib-Akhora’s offer was sincere, if there was hope, ( _There isn’t,_ an inner voice hissed) there would be no other opportunity to escape her fate. 

An early grave or the Den.

_“I intend to see you saved from this life,”_ the older woman had said. _“I offer you a gift you cannot even imagine. Safety. Laughter. A future full of hope where you will not die too young, your soul charred to a husk.”_

By the Eye. Yahzin didn’t know what to think or believe as she smothered a bitter laugh. Her soul? It was too late to save that, surely. 

_You are too old for children’s tales._ It was all a lie. It had to be. She couldn’t accept otherwise. Despite Akhora’s reputation, this had to be a Test. With war brewing, perhaps even Akhora’s disappearance was nothing more that fabrication to set this stage for such a Test of loyalty.

If that was so, Yahzin would not fail. Her shoulders firmed. She didn’t believe in love. Her chest lifted with a big inhale. Her mind turned, and her gaze, to locating Ib-Hokkan. Vinuir’s sole commander in residence had never been anything other than a heap of warg dung, but better to speak with him than any of the three remaining Lords or Ar-Tagan. 

But then, a younger Novice, Glivin, walked past, his small chin lifted and his body rigid. The floor slowly fell silent as more and more of Yahzin’s fellows noted what she had.

Glivin, a dangerous Weapon for one only nine years of age, had marked up his face with a familiar blue symbol Yahzin had seen only once before. The boy’s dark eyes swept among them, a challenge, daring any to say anything about his actions. 

_It has to be a Test,_ that same inner voice concluded. _No Black Númenórean would risk her life by so blatantly revealing herself to a bunch of kids._ It was tantamount to suicide. 

_“I came to save you,”_ she once again heard Akhora say, and Yahzin’s teeth ground together in frustration.

She searched the room, assessing how the other Novices responded. Like frightened sheep, none dared say a word. Neither did any call Glivin out. 

The tow-headed boy with his straight, ever-tousled locks and peculiarly dark eyes waited. So small, he was. Slighter of build and shorter of stature than most his age. 

_Yet he’s the only one with the courage to act. The courage to **believe.**_ Yahzin ignored the pang of guilt the thought generated.

By the slight quiver of his chin, Yahzin knew Glivin was not as fearless as he pretended. A minute tremor vibrated up his thin frame when two of the senior-most Novice Arcanists—Bovor at sixteen and Elyhr at fifteen—broke the tableau by stalking towards the Weapons-Novice.

Yahzin fingered a throwing dagger. _Don’t. You’ll be punished, too. Glivin is a fool. Don’t join him._ Her hand dropped to her side.

The two would-be Arcanists reached for Glivin, and the young Weapons-Novice brandished his scimitar, the blade appearing in his hand so fast, she could have blinked and missed it. “Back off,” Glivin snarled.

A hollow, popping sound registered, followed by a second. So sudden, so unexpected was it that Bovor and Elyhr were falling limply to the floor before she realized what it was. _Blowpipes._ The others must have reached the same conclusion. Every Novice reached for his or her favorite weapon as they rounded upon one of the open windows lining the southern wall. 

Instead of instantly attacking as they’d been trained, all of them hesitated, likely for the same reason as Yahzin. 

Two men slid into the room, both clad in black uniforms. One of blond hair and dark eyes with a cleft in his chin, one of black hair and strong features with hazel eyes. And behind them, a third. The curly, auburn haired man took up position behind them, lounging with what she decided was feigned repose as he kept watch on the world outside. 

None of that kept Yahzin rooted. No, it was the blue tattoos all three of the men sported beneath his left eye. Whatever Akhora was up to, she wasn’t alone.

The realization sank home like a well-placed arrow. Yahzin’s emotions surged in a jumbled-up mess. Hope. Anguish. Fury and bitterness.

By Sauron’s black soul, she loathed hope. As two of the men walked down the aisle formed by the Novices’ squat bunks, she stamped hope out, refusing to give it a foothold. All the while, her anger at Akhora and these men climbed. 

Novices quietly got out of the men’s way, their eyes flying in search of guidance from one another. Guidance! As if they hadn’t been trained for _years._ Worse, she read that deceitful witch, _hope,_ on their faces, too. 

That was when Yahzin snapped. Rage burbling through her veins, she turned tail and bolted from the room, her nerves screaming. Those men had to stop her…right? Her skin itched, expecting a dagger or dart to strike her down, but it didn’t happen. 

_“I’ve come to save you,”_ Akhora had said. That Yahzin escaped down the stairs unscathed and unpursued didn’t change the Weapon’s mind. She couldn’t believe such claims. These men cared nothing for her. Nor did Akhora. It was a lie. The worst lie of all. 

Akhora’s cronies might have fooled Glivin, but they wouldn’t trick her. Her feet propelled her from the last stair and into the main floor.

She had to find Ib-Hokkan and tell him what she knew. This was a Test. It had to be.

And Yahzin had no intention of failing it.

OoOoOo

Erynor’s gaze followed the blond head of hair as it vanished down the stairs, his lips flattening. _Terrific._ Inevitable that it would happen, he supposed, but a sight Erynor suspected he’d later regret not doing more to prevent.

As Erynor smiled at the Novices looking at him like a pack of wild dogs deciding what to do about the intruder invading their territory, Calenor efficiently stripped the two Arcanists they’d felled of all weapons. The vials of blood Calenor discovered made both of them tense. Those, Calenor pocketed. Erynor wasn’t sure what they’d do with them, but leaving them here was not happening.

The platinum-haired boy they’d protected shuffled on his feet, his eyes uncertain on the surface, but underneath lurked a jaded coldness Erynor had witnessed in too many of Caeldor’s youth.

“You let Yahzin escape,” the boy accused. 

Erynor’s eyes collided with Calenor’s. By the twitch of the lips, Calenor informed Erynor the boy was all Erynor’s.

_Thanks,_ Erynor conveyed with a narrowing of the eyes. Well aware that with each precious minute here, the noose about his neck tightened, he addressed the room. Upon each face, he read the same doubts. The same fears. “She did not lift weapon against one of ours.”

Silence descended. An eerie silence, given he was surrounded by children. 

_But they aren’t children, are they?_ That had been beaten out of them. Erynor spared a thought to hope that one day the Dunedain could restore it at least in part. 

“See, Mahlin? I told you. They’re fools. Too stupid to run,” a young teenager proclaimed with derision.

“Too stubborn,” Erynor countered. “There are some things worth fighting, even dying for.”

“Like Glivin?” another snorted. “What game are you playing?”

Erynor growled to himself. This talk was important, but the Valar knew there was no time. As the Novices said, reinforcements had to be coming shortly. That blond girl would ensure it. 

If only she’d understood… But no, how could any of these children? They were utterly unacquainted with things like friendship or family. 

“He donned our mark,” Erynor said, emotions turning his voice harsh. “That makes him ours.” A short look at the boy he now knew to be Glivin. “There are rules.”

“Yours?” A cluster of Novices parted, revealed a sweet-faced, red-haired urchin.

_By the Valar._ Pain contracted around his heart. Saldís had told the Rangers that children entered training on their fifth birthday, but she looked closer to four! Freckles liberally dotted her nose and cheeks, and her brown eyes had an amber tint to them.

_She should be in pigtails, chasing after puppies and picking flowers._ Instead, here she was, a wooden blade strapped to her waist and such a look of wounding in her eyes it was all he could do not to snatch her up and run, hang the consequences. 

“The Brotherhood,” Calenor offered when Erynor’s words failed him. 

_Brotherhood?_

Calenor winked, and Erynor rolled his eyes. _Fine. Brotherhood._ “The Brotherhood,” Erynor reiterated. “We stick together. We protect one another no matter what, and we never betray our brothers.” 

His gaze found Glivin, and the boy slowly nodded. Whether the child truly meant it or not remained to be seen, but Erynor permitted himself to hope. He had to. There had to be some light in this dark endeavor. 

The little girl’s lower lip trembled. “Only boys, then.”

“No, there’s girls, too,” Glivin pounced, his eyes challenging Erynor. “I’ve seen her.”

“Girls, too,” Erynor agreed gravely.

Whispers flew among some of the Novices, but then a commotion arose from the street below, followed by a door slamming into a wall on the floor beneath them. _Time’s up._

Berenor twisted within the window. “Time to go.” He leaped lightly into the room and snatched up the first of the unconscious Arcanist-trainees while Calenor hefted the second. 

“What will you do with them?” a voice asked, one ripe with suspicion, but Erynor didn’t bother seeking him out. He hefted the bunks nearest the stairwell and jammed them into the doorway, grunting. Glivin appeared at his side, lending aid. 

_What **are** we going to do with them? _

Light footsteps began to race up the stairwell. A lot of them.

Erynor clapped Glivin on the shoulder. “Brother,” he whispered, and by the Valar, he meant to honor that. He must to prove to the others the Rangers meant what they said. It was why The Brothers had acted so blatantly. 

Erynor then leaped over beds to catch up with Berenor and Calenor at a window on the north wall. 

Calenor tossed a harried, “Not what you’re thinking,” over his shoulder to the Novices, answering the earlier question. He even winked at them. “We’ll just give them reason to reconsider targeting one of ours again.”

Berenor disappeared up to the roof first, swiftly followed by Calenor. 

Erynor paused in the window. His gaze returned to the red-haired girl. _I can’t do it._ If he left her, he’d never be able to live with himself if she was slain during training. Looking at her, such an outcome was all too easily imagined.

Not giving himself time to reconsider, he raced back, hefted her into his arms with a murmured, “Trust me, sweet pea,” and raced after his brothers.

Leaving a silent room behind him.

OoOoOo

_  
**Cliffs above Caeldor**  
_

Finnin lowered the spyglass his brother had constructed early in their journey, alarm pounding through his veins. Lying on his belly, he was, beneath a length of burlap coated in desert dirt to aid him in blending in. “Mahal.” Truly? What were The Brothers thinking? 

Once again, he lifted the brass cylinder, praying that he’d been mistaken, but sure enough, there they were, sprinting across rooftops with a dozen Black Númenóreans in pursuit. And that number? Aye, it was growing.

_Of course it is._ The Black Company’s luck had been rubbish for over a month. This was but the cherry atop that particular pie. 

As he watched, an alarm was issued. Erynor contorted to avoid a fireball lobbed his way, his arms full with a curly-haired girl-child.

Saldís. Where was…? 

_There._ His lass trailed behind The Brothers from the street below. From her rigid posture, he bet his beard she was cursing up a storm. Even so, his lassie slipped something from her pocket and raised it to her lips after a hasty scan of the surroundings.

_You’re clear, lass._ Her blowpipe felled its first victim—a man mid-jump from one rooftop to the next after The Brothers. His body jerked, then he fell to the alley below. 

Again, Saldís bided her time, and Finnin soon saw her reasoning. Each time, she struck when her target was mid-jump, thereby hiding her intervention from the other pursuers. _For now at any rate._ To any not paying close attention, it seemed the Black Númenóreans were suffering from nothing more than a deplorable case of clumsiness. 

He purred, his eyes caressing her bonny form. Deadly, aye she was that. But she was also smart. And, he reassured himself, schooling his attention elsewhere, she was not alone. Though finding them would prove difficult, he’d no doubts but that the Rangers, too, were converging on the scene. 

Finnin was certain the shorter muscular man with swords strapped to his back was Thalon. The Ranger paused for no reason Finnin could see—at first—but when a lithe body drew near, Thalon cut him down without pause before continuing on. Thinning Black Númenórean ranks, he was, and making full use of the distraction The Brothers provided. 

Finnin collapsed the spyglass, and with jaw muscle twitching, he growled. He slithered backwards as fast as he could, burlap and all. He dared not rise, even when he knew himself out of sight from the valley below. At night, it was safe enough, but by day, the accursed desert was too flat to provide any measure of concealment from the enemy.

He scrambled to a thorny excuse for a bush, one of a handful scattered around the landscape. There, he peeled back another bit of burlap, revealing the concealed ditch Ragan had constructed during the night to hide dwarf members of the Company during daylight hours. 

Inside Ragan, Hlein, and Kyri sat within the space, a space that had grown since last Finnin had checked. At Finnin’s unannounced arrival, hard faced flew upwards, and all three of the dwarves reached for their weapons. “Ready yourselves. The Brothers are fleeing with a pack of enemies on their tails.”

“What?” Ragan’s war hammer dipped lower, and Finnin’s friend hurried to stand beneath where Finnin lay. 

Lord Hlein said not a word, only grabbed the satchel near his feet, his expression a silent demand. Finnin nodded at the aged lord. Aye, Hlein had best prepare himself in case he was needed. With a short bob of the head in return, Hlein upended his satchel and calmly donned the stained and ripped clothes therein, saving the modified shackles Finnur had constructed for last.

In a grim voice, Finnin told them, “Could be it’s time to make ourselves known.” Then to the sculptor, “Kyri, I need you to take word back to Dol Hamoth, You’d best tell Nori what’s happened. We need a plan, and we need one fast.”


	39. Bad to Worse

Barhador’s blue-gray eyes were hard as he marked Ar-Tagan’s progress down the avenue descending from the Seat. The Arcanist wore an obscene Eye-pendant proudly, and in his right hand, he carried a black-handled dagger that curved like waves upon the Sea. An athame, Saldís had labeled it. 

The Ranger had trailed Ar-Tagan the better part of the morning, unseen and undetected, a feat that had required every scrap of skill Barhador had accumulated in his one hundred and twenty-three years of life. It was a dangerous enterprise, but he’d deemed the risk necessary. As leader of the Company’s Rangers, Barhador needed to understand the workings of the man’s mind. He had to be able to anticipate him. 

Tagan’s instructions of minutes before to the black-haired, pale-faced Hand Guitan rang in Barhador’s ears. The snake planned to execute a child. Not for any supposed crime, but to destroy any trust the Novices had in their unknown benefactor.

It would work. As jaded as the children were, such an act was sure to destroy the fledgling trust a segment of them had bestowed upon Saldís and his Rangers, for the Dunedain, too, had taken to protecting children this past day. 

That such guarding was necessary sickened him. From Barhador’s observations, it seemed the Black Númenóreans remaining in Caeldor felt slighted, left behind while their kindred rode to active battle. That anger found an outlet, one their leaders did nothing to divert: the Novices.

_And the Breeders._ Barhador rubbed his face. His team would need to rescue those women soon. His conscience could not tolerate waiting, not when he knew full well what was being done to the ladies there.

Barhador had no words for such evil as he witnessed in this accursed city, only a boundless fury that men descended as he was from the line of Elros could be as vile and debased as the lowest, crudest orc. This, he would never share with Lord Elrond should their paths again cross. 

He bided his time, waiting and half hoping the opportunity would arise to simply execute the man. If Tagan was slain— _And Hand Guitan as well,_ he thought grimly—perhaps Tagan’s stated plan would never reach fruition. It would die with the two men who’d spent less than a handful of minutes deciding on how to implement it, how they would condemn a child to the most brutal of executions with all the disinterest of a milkmaid selecting what work dress she might wear. 

By Eru, he loathed these people. With each discovery of how pitiful of soul they were, Barhador thanked the Valar all the more that Saldís had been redeemed. She’d been one of them. He knew that. It was a miracle that she wasn’t any longer.

_Sister, she has so much of you in her._ His father, Erthor, would certainly be proud of this granddaughter of his. 

A disturbance. Guitan and Tagan halted in unspoken unison. A commander—Ib-Hokkan of House Vinuir, Barhador instantly identified—pulled a stumbling, blond-haired Novice in his wake. Hokkan’s long face with its perpetually pinched features was tight with malice and fury. 

Tagan reacted to the sight headed his way with lifted brows but little more. A warm breeze ruffled the ruler’s gray hair, and his charcoal eyes locked onto the commander and Novice with snakelike coldness. 

“Ib-Hokkan?” he asked coolly. 

The sandy-haired, middle aged commander threw the Novice down onto the ground, then grabbed her hair at the crown of her head, pinning her in place. The girl’s leaf-green eyes never lifted above the men’s kneecaps, and by the rigidity thrumming through her slender frame, she was cognizant of her peril. 

Barhador’s hand slipped around the hilt of one of his two stolen scimitars. 

“This one,” Hokkan said, using his grip on the girl’s scalp to jerk her in emphasis, “claims a woman saved her from the attentions of Ne-Asser.”

“Ne-Asser. The slain Arcanist?” Guitan queried. 

“The same. She saw the face of his killer.”

“The Novices' would-be protector,” Guitan murmured. “So. It is more than rumor.”

Hokkan nodded shortly. “Novice Yahzin,” he emphasized with yet another jerk of the girl’s hair, “reported the incident to me only minutes ago. The Weapon who saved her asked her not to reveal her existence.”

“Two nights ago,” Tagan interjected in a chilling croon.

“She thought it was a Test,” Hokkan said with heavy scorn. 

_She’s the one who saw Saldís._ The skin around Barhador’s eyes and jaw tightened. Saldís had confessed her gamble of letting this Novice go. It seemed the dice just fell against them. 

With grace enough to make an elf jealous, Tagan crouched before the girl. One long finger forced her chin upwards until their eyes met. Even from the distance between them, Barhador heard the girl’s low whimper. 

“All of life is a Test,” Tagan said with chilling gentleness. “You, Novice, failed me.” Then like a striking serpent, his face contorted with fury and his voice became a lash. “Who? Give me the name, Novice, or I will gut you and let the rats feast on your entrails. _While you live.”_

Tagan’s fingers slowly curled about the girl’s neck and drew her close as a lover. Though the girl’s eyes rounded and a squeak escaped her lips, she made no attempt to struggle. 

Then with teeth bared, Tagan jerked her by the neck as he hissed, “Speak.”

OoOoOo

“What were you thinking, Erynor?” Calenor growled from behind Berenor, his voice tight with the same knowledge pounding through Berenor’s brain: The Brothers had fouled things up royally. There would be no more sneaking about. Not after this. Less than a day and a half since they’d returned to the city with Saldís, and The Brothers had ruined that.

Not that they’d had much choice. 

_“Eventually, we’ll be discovered. Likely sooner than we’d wish,”_ she’d told them as they’d returned to Caeldor. _“When it happens, run. Do as much damage as you can— **if** you can—but run.”_

His cousin would be frustrated at this development, but as she’d said, it was inevitable. She’d promised the Novices that her blade would protect them. When one had painstakingly etched a crude version of the Khuzdul rune upon his face, he’d effectively tied their hands. Fail to defend him, and Saldís’s promise would be deemed a lie.

Berenor had hoped to slip in and out of the barracks before any alarm could be sounded, but then he’d let that blond go. An act of idiocy, perhaps, but he could not lift a hand against a Novice not actively threatening them, just as he could not stand idle where the boy was concerned. 

Berenor groaned, too late realizing his second bit of lunacy: they’d _left Glivin there._ As if the entire barracks floor had not heard Calenor’s words about The Brotherhood. ( _The Brotherhood, Calenor,_ he thought wildly. _Truly?)_

“Gaining,” Erynor said shortly.

Berenor chanced another peek. _Not goo—_

His steps screamed to a halt as he spied the roof ahead of them filling with men. _No not men. Novices._ What looked to be the full compliment of Sangahyando’s young spilled onto the roof, the eldest among them pushing to the forefront with blades drawn. One black-haired boy clutched at a necklace bearing Sauron’s device, and the air of wrongness Berenor had learned to associate with an oncoming Arcanist attack intensified. 

The boy was casting a spell.

By Melkor’s bloody, forsaken Pit! The air around him dimmed. Berenor needed no more warning that that. 

“Ditch them,” he said without qualm. Putting words to action, he folded double, and with a twist, he left his comatose captive on the rooftop while he sprinted to his right. In this direction, there was no chance of leaping to another roof. 

“Hold tight, sweet pea,” he heard Erynor murmur, and for the life of him, Berenor couldn’t blame his friend for snatching her. There was something utterly defenseless about the girl, though logic said it probably wasn’t an accurate assessment. No one in Caeldor’s war machines could fail to pick up a trick or two.

The Brothers reached the edge of the roof and jumped just as ice formed beneath their feet. The air in Berenor’s lungs chilled— _Eru_ —and the controlled fall he’d intended turned perilous as his fingers, reaching for the roof’s lip to shorten his fall, skidded and slid off, unable to gain a purchase.

Down he plummeted. 

His boots slapped onto pavement with painful impact despite landing with knees bent. A swift glance proved Erynor had landed with equal fortune. Calenor, however, hissed in pain. The foot injured in Umbar had not fared well from the abuse. With a white-lipped grimace and shake of the head, Calenor told Berenor to ignore it. No time to coddle it.

A shout. Berenor drew his filched scimitars, then he rotated shoulders and wrists and breathed deeply to settle himself. Without hesitation, he planted himself to meet the oncoming mob of Black Númenóreans charging their way, some of them no more than children. Calenor hobbled into position at his right.

“This doesn’t look promising,” his black-haired brother murmured. 

“No,” he agreed.

Calenor’s lips twitched. “If this is how we meet our end, I’m proud to face it with my brothers beside me.”

Emotion welled up within Berenor’s throat, but then the enemy was upon them. _Crash!_ The scimitar in his left hand swiped an enemy blade aside while the blade in his right blocked a strike from a female Weapon. Berenor’s belly lurched backwards to avoid yet another blade. 

Erynor positioned himself at Berenor and Calenor’s backs, the child protectively placed in the center of The Brothers’ knot. Calenor bit out a low curse. Berenor had a heartbeat to wonder what else had gone wrong when a small, sharp pain pierced his neck. 

His eyes flared. _Oh no._

The strength melted from his knees, his sight darkened, and the ground rose up to meet him.

OoOoOo

Orodon’s inhalation morphed into a sharp hiss as The Brothers collapsed, each in turn felled by small darts flying up at them from the blowpipe belonging to the girl they’d tried to protect. As Saldís had warned, the children had been brutally conditioned. The kid’s chin trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, but she acted nonetheless.

Before any could ensure The Brothers remained down, Orodon thrust his way through the crowd, brazenly shoving and pushing as if he was a commander himself. “Make a path,” he barked. “Ar-Tagan will wish them taken alive.”

All the while, he prayed his bluff would not be called. If the Dunedain could extract The Brothers before Caeldor’s leadership arrived… 

_Too late._ Orodon’s steps halted as Ar-Nahlis, Lord Sangahyando, marched onto the scene, her steps carrying her directly towards The Brothers.

Thalon materialized at Orodon’s left shoulder. Their eyes met in a brief, weighty exchange. Thalon pointed to himself and jerked his head.  
Orodon’s chin dipped in agreement.

Without a second look, Thalon sprinted off to locate and gather their brethren. Orodon remained as he was. He would stay near his young kinsmen. If any opportunity arose to free them, Orodon intended to take it.

OoOoOo

_Urkhas kûd._

Saldís bolted. Orodon and Thalon’s hopes to save The Brothers had turned to ashes the instant Ar-Nahlis arrived on the scene. The older Weapon would never let a presumed traitor out of her sight. Not until he was locked away with ample guards to ensure he stayed that way.

_Durin’s beard._ Saldís’s gaze lifted to the heights above, seeking Finnin’s location, knowing she wouldn’t spot it. Had he seen?

With Akhora’s mocking denouncements ringing between her ears, Saldís girded herself. Hate it though she did, she knew how this would work. The Brothers were among the Dunedain sporting the same tattoo as Saldís. Once Nahlis saw that, it wouldn’t be safe for anyone bearing that mark to be seen. Finnur had concocted a powder to aid them, but without testing…

‘Twas a good thing Barhador had left half the Rangers unmarked. All was not yet lost. _Nor will it be._ “Ib-Akhora” would see to that. 

_That Novice will betray you,_ her Akhora-self sang maliciously. 

Saldís conceded it was likely but refused to let that stop her. She would not abandon The Brothers.

_You misbegotten, sentimental fool,_ Akhora hissed. _You throw away our lives for males?_ Then in a silky croon, _Turn them in. We can save ourselves. With Valkthor’s cowardly defection after Umbar, none will believe him. Kimilzor is gone. Who can counter us?_

Truly? Had she once really been so vile?

Foolish question. Of course she had. Betrayal was the least of her crimes. 

But no more. _Me,_ she answered, mentally baring her teeth. _I will counter you. To the death._

OoOoOo

Finnin spared a last look through his spyglass, cursing to see Black Númenóreans clustered around the site where The Brothers had fallen. His jaw clenched, and his left cheek twitched with an unconscious tick.

By Durin. How had things gone afoul so swiftly?

A frontal assault was now out of the question. The Brothers would become hostages. _Valar protect you, my friends._ His stomach churned with acid to think of the three youngest Dunedain at their enemy’s mercy, for the Black Númenóreans had none. 

He rubbed his jaw roughly. Unless Nori and Barhador deemed the time was ripe to assault the city, thereby abandoning all secrecy, he could see no option to saving the three young Dunedain warriors but one—his Saldís would have to play the part of Akhora once again. 

His hand fisted and thumped hard into the ground beneath him. Every protective instinct within Finnin’s soul shouted its denial. Already, she struggled. What would having to immerse herself in her past life do to her?

_Nothing,_ he decided. _Because I’ll be with you, Bâhzundushuh._ If two lassies fought for supremacy in his lady’s skin, Finnin intended to do all he could to ensure Saldís emerged the victor. He intended to be near, as visible to her as possible. A constant reminder.

So. 

He hurried to slide backwards upon his belly, keeping low to avoid any from spying him from the city below. Reaching Ragan’s hole, he ripped off the burlap and thrust the spyglass down into his friend’s hands. 

Finnin began to divest himself of weapons as Hlein had already done, handing them down to be stashed within the hole. “Change of plans, lads. The Brothers have been taken.” Turning to Hlein and finding him grim of face, Finnin added, “It looks like we’ll be venturing into the lion’s den after all.”

OoOoOo

Barhador’s gut clenched as he willed the blond girl to hold her silence, all the while knowing she wouldn’t. Despite the sudden uproar from another section of the city, neither Barhador nor Ar-Tagan and Guitan spared the sounds of commotion any heed. In unison, they waited in suspense.

Tagan’s fingers tightened minutely around the girl’s throat, and for a moment, the girl’s face hardened mulishly. Then came despair, as easily read as words from a book. 

The Ranger slipped one of four throwing knives free from the sheath tucked within his left boot. He took careful aim. There would be no second chance should he fail here.

“It…” She swallowed with difficulty. “Akhora,” she managed. “Ib-Akhora.” 

Barhador gave the men no time to absorb the stunning pronouncement. He charged, his first dagger flying ahead of him and the second right after it.

Tagan jumped backwards with startling speed, permitting the girl to fall to the ground with both hands wrapped protectively about her throat. Even so, the man wasn’t quite fast enough. 

The first blade slammed hilt-deep not into Tagan’s chest as Barhador had hoped, but in the man’s shoulder. The second dagger hit its target dead-on, and Ib-Hokkan collapsed, the life draining from his eyes before his body hit the ground.

_One down, two to go._

Barhador never paused. Even as he raced to close the distance between himself and his foes, he launched the third dagger. It sank into Tagan’s pelvis with enough force to cause the man to totter, momentarily interrupting him from reaching into the pouch at his hip. Shoulder and pelvis were painful and hobbling injuries, but not severe enough to remove the Arcanist from the battlefield. Barhador’s gut twisted. He feared he’d just signed his own death warrant. 

_Gelil, my dove, forgive me. I fear I will not be returning to you this time._

The Ranger dove to the ground to avoid Guitan’s whip, drawing his second sword at the same time. The Ranger rolled back onto his feet. One blade flew upwards to block Guitan’s scimitar and, spinning low, the second sliced at the Hand’s ankles. 

The Hand projected himself backward in a spectacular flip. Barhador lunged and scored a slice across one calf before the man righted.

Deep-set sapphire eyes met Barhador’s, their surfaces coldly dispassionate as Guitan flicked the whip by his side. Barhador was not lulled into believing the man would strike next with the whip—no warrior of the Hand’s experience would betray his intent so boldly. 

Barhador’s skin prickled, and the tell-tale air of wrongness intensified. Barhador threw himself to the right, lips tightening as a line of earth tore from its moorings, bursting through the pavement and lashing like a serpent where the Ranger’s legs had stood but a heartbeat before. 

Movement beyond. Ar-Tagan slowly shuffling away, a crimson stain spreading across his hip and spilling down his leg. Tagan could not be permitted to leave. No matter the cost, Tagan must die here. For Middle Earth. For the little ones left behind in Esteldin. 

The earthen worm lurched at Barhador, and the Ranger leaped over its strike, his feet dancing as it pursued. Guitan closed with him once more, the black-haired Arcanist’s scimitar blurring with a speed Barhador had only beheld before from Himon. Barhador found himself harried, hard-pressed to dodge and parry the coordinated strikes. Each time the earth-construct forced him to move, the Hand’s scimitar was there to press the advantage.

Sweat collected upon the Ranger’s nape and forehead. He was going to lose, especially if Tagan added his own magics to the fray. Barhador resorted to taking desperate risks. He shifted both blades into one hand, using them to slam Guitan’s scimitar away from his belly as his left hand claimed his last danger and launched it.

Tagan must have assumed Barhador amply distracted, for the Arcanist’s attention was upon the crimson vials that must have come from his now-open pouch. The silver-haired Arcanist had time only for his eyes to flare before the dagger hit home, ramming sideways through the man’s neck. 

The vials fell from his fingers, tinkling as they clattered and rolled on the cobbled pavement. 

_Not dead._ The man was in distress, yes, but he yet drew breath. Barhador spat out a short curse in Sindarin—and cursed again when Guitan visibly reacted to the sound. Though it was plain the Arcanist didn’t understand the words, new suspicions percolated in his eyes. 

“Who,” the Hand asked lowly, “are you?” 

The two circled. Beyond Guitan, Barhador saw Tagan clutching his neck, choking on his own blood. Then the silver-haired Arcanist yanked the blade from his neck, his gray eyes incendiary as they locked onto the Ranger. The man’s fingers moved, and Barhador again threw himself into a roll as a ball of fire flew at him, inadvertently singeing the Hand’s left arm at the same time. 

Barhador doubted Tagan remembered the Hand was there, so complete was the furious intensity of his regard upon the one who’d injured him. Another fireball came, and another. With each, Barhador endeavored to keep the Hand between himself and the livid, senior-most Arcanist. 

At first, Barhador didn’t even notice that the pendant dangling from Ar-Tagan’s blood-drenched neck began to glow. A trick of the light, it seemed, and dodging fireballs, worms comprised of dirt, and the Hand’s whip and scimitar claimed the bulk of his attention. Sweat pooled in the small of the Ranger’s back, and his breaths emerged in heavy rasps.

But then the air of malevolent darkness emanating from Tagan intensified until it dwarfed anything Barhador had felt heretofore. Dread poured forth in palpable waves until the Ranger shook with the need to flee.

_By the Valar._ It reminded the Ranger of long past brushes his forefathers had recounted with the Nazgûl. Whatever was transpiring, Barhador feared he had but moments to halt it.

OoOoOo

Glivin perched upon the rooftop overlooking where commanders and lords from the Six Houses swarmed around the three fallen men. He studied the scene beneath him, fingers numb from clenching the lip of the roof. Though the ice had melted quickly, the stone retained a sharp chill.

There had to be something Glivin could do. The blond man had called him _brother,_ and Glivin’s heart had latched onto that with all its might. He’d never had belonging, and the small taste he’d had when the blond man had told him The Brotherhood’s code had only serve to ignite a hunger for more. 

Fledgling though his promise to The Brotherhood was, Glivin had meant it when he’d painstakingly etched their symbol on his face. He was done with betrayal. Even if the Duumvirate and Six Lords killed him, Glivin swore to himself he’d never bow the knee to them again.

He had _brothers._

_They lie,_ a part of him whispered. 

Glivin shrugged that off, eyes smarting and lips trembling though he clamped them together. _I don’t care,_ he told that fear. He’d rather die than keep living this life. Maybe he was an idiot, but he had to believe the men had spoken the truth. He had to. He just couldn’t survive anymore without it.

No. For Glivin, there was no going back. Even if the entire barracks hadn’t witnessed his exchange with his new brothers, he wouldn’t have tried to hide the tattoo.

Instead, he’d save his new brothers if he could. 

The youth scanned the street below, searching…searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, only that he needed ideas. Anger flared when his roving eyes crossed little Vaeh. Naw, he couldn’t blame her, not really, but why couldn’t she have just trusted the men for a few minutes more? 

_They were outnumbered._ His anger fled. Vaeh hadn’t really had a choice.

He dismissed the little redheaded girl for now. She was safe enough, but if she mattered for some reason to his blond-haired brother, Glivin intended to see to it she stayed that way if he could. Maybe his brother was her sire? 

Then his breath hitched and prickles raced up and down his arms. Hidden among the Weapons and Arcanists below, he spotted another man wearing The Brotherhood’s mark. 

_Another brother._

Elation. Nervous excitement. 

Glivin ran. He had to reach his brother before the man vanished into the crowd.

OoOoOo

Saldís tore at her outerwear, cursing up a storm as she charged into the dwarves’ midst. They must have known she was coming, because all three of them stood beside a large hole in the ground, the stolen length of burlap she’d filched from Caeldor discarded beside it.

 _“Lu akraditu,”_ she snarled (I don’t believe it) when her belt somehow knotted itself and refused to come loose. She did not have time for this!

Her frantic quest to rid herself of her Black Númenórean garb halted as two large hands framed her face. Her wild eyes were captured by Finnin’s. “Breathe,” he said.

“I don’t have time,” she snapped, furious at him, at herself, at the world. She hated to have to act like Ib-Akhora again, but in the end, she had no choice. 

Finnin’s kiss caught her unawares. So tender it was, yet firm and slow to end. It melted her heart even as it rent it in twain. She wanted that future she’d seen. By Berúthiel’s accursed cats, she wanted the opportunity to explore the depths of all that was between herself and this dwarf.

When it ended, his forehead touched hers. “We’ll get through this,” she heard him say. Somehow, her eyes had slid shut, and she did not open them just yet. Saldís breathed in the scent of him, the feel of him pressed to her.

It might be all she had of him for quite a long and empty while should things go foul. 

“We’d best be hurrying,” came Hlein’s voice to her right. A big hand clasped her shoulder and shook softly.

_Aye,_ she thought even as Akhora dressed her down. Akhora had not ceased from lambasting her since she’d made the decision to return.

_Returning when traitors have been unmasked is the worst kind of idiocy,_ Akhora railed. _The timing will see us dead!_

Or, Saldís thought, it would save them. Only a madwoman would reveal herself at this point. Ib-Akhora had never been that. Her story might be all the more believed because of it. 

_Or they’ll simply slay us. The Duumvirate does not take risks!_

No, they didn’t. But the Black Company needed time. Time to win the Novices. A part of her dearly wished for nothing more than to simply attack and let the cards fall where they may. Save The Brothers and forget the children. But she couldn’t. Not and live with herself. 

Saldís’s eyes opened, then she stiffened. _By Mahal._ How had she failed to notice? What did Finnin…? 

“No,” she growled, rearing back. Clothed in garments little more than rags, his beard and hair a matted mess, she instantly discerned his intent. “You aren’t coming.”

“Aye,” he said calmly, accepting shackles from Hlein and locking them about his wrists. His beard, she suddenly realized, had knots in it—thistle-like knots such as Stiffbeards were famed for sporting. “I am.” He caught her chin in one hand, the chains between his wrists jangling. “We do this together.”

Releasing her chin, he extended his arm.

“This may not work, Finnin. Hlein and I may be marching to our deaths.”

No response.

“There is no need to risk more of us,” she snapped. By her soul, ‘twas tempting to yank on his beard to get the fool dwarf to listen. “There is no point.”

The daft dwarf stared at her with calm eyes, a kernel of hardness beneath the placidness. By that, she surmised he wouldn’t be budging. 

She tried another track, stepping closer and almost begging. “I don’t want you to see this, Finnin. The things I’ll have to do…” She broke off, eyes skating away from his.

The proffered arm never faltered. The palpable touch of his eyes on her remained steady. 

A sigh, and she scrubbed her face. Finnin was no dwarfling with blinders on his eyes. He knew what she’d have to do, and he wouldn’t let her go without him. ‘Twas plain as day.

_Orc spit._ She’d never, never understand this dwarf’s affection for her. Why do all this for a crazy daughter of men?

Saldís hauled him close by his prickly beard and kissed him hard. Before he had a chance to react, she drew back and grasped his forearm in a warrior’s clasp.

Less than three minutes later, Ib-Akhora boldly strode down the street heading into Caeldor, two chained prisoners hobbling along as best they could in her wake…and her tattoo concealed by a powder Finnur had concocted. (By her soul, she hoped it stayed put as Finnur had professed it would. If it didn’t, this would be the shortest rescue attempt ever.) Gart’s rancid clothes hung from her frame, and the two Gondorian swords were strapped to her back. 

Her flute and pendant, she’d regretfully left in Ragan’s care.

She gripped the lead chain in one sweaty hand. _Eru,_ she dared, helpless to hold back the silent prayer. _Let this work. Protect The Brothers. Protect us all._ Her nerves screamed as the sentries guarding the approach came into view. 

Wherever Bifur was, she was suddenly and fiercely glad he wasn’t present at that moment. Or Nori. She had little doubt but that her uncles and adâd would be chained up alongside Finnin if given half a chance. 

The thought bolstered her.

No matter what, she and her two dwarves would suffer this day. It was inevitable. The Brothers, too. But if they could survive, there was hope this gambit would end not with the lot of them screaming on an altar, but free to one day tell the tale over a mug of ale. 

With each step, instinct tried to draw upon her Akhora mindset, but that, she couldn’t permit. Akhora would betray The Brothers and Saldís’s dwarves in a heartbeat to see her own skin spared. No, this Saldís had to fake without letting that Akhora coldness near her (with Akhora’s incessant invectives shrieking through her brain all the while). 

Fabulous. Truly. Her chin firmed. _I am the stronger one,_ she reminded herself. Akhora hadn’t won in the Sea. She wouldn’t win here.

Saldís’s eyes slid over one shoulder, colliding with Finnin’s. One of the dwarf’s eyelids descended in an abrupt wink. His fingers moved. _*Whatever happens, never forget you have my heart.*_

A jerky, minute nod. She faced forward. 

The first of the guards spotted her. The Weapon—she did not recognize him—tensed, and his lips parted. A second later, a handful of compatriots joined him. The group rushed out to meet her, each of them armed and hard of face.

“Ib-Akhora,” one greeted, eyes flaring the instant he identified her. 

Then from behind him, Mahris pushed to the forefront. “I knew it,” the red-haired Weapon said in a hiss. “I knew that rat-faced _mahebe_ lied.” Then with a laugh, her eyes settling beyond Saldís, “You recaptured our escaped runt!” Salacious eyes ran over Finnin. “And brought a friend.”

Saldís’s hands contorted around the chain. If Mahris went near Finnin, the redhead would die. Finnin was _hers._

Durin’s beard. The violence of her reaction stunned her, for it was all Saldís. Akhora had naught to do with this. 

She coaxed her lips upwards into a cold smile. “That I did. Tell me, Mahris. Where is Valkthor?”

“Not here,” Mahris said with a sly glint in her eyes. With malicious glee, the Weapon added, “He took _your_ position. In Umbar.”

Despite her iron grip on herself, it felt like Akhora bits bled through Saldís’s defenses. Standing on this road, stepping into this role, she found herself instantly responding. “Did he now?” Saldís purred. “He’ll wish he hadn’t when I’m through with him.”

‘Twas then another guard displaced Mahris, an unwise act he seemed unaware of. Mahris had ever been less…stable…than most. The woman was deadly, aye, but there was a madness in her that put Saldís with her Akhora-side to shame. 

The burly Weapon inched closer, his dark eyes brimming with suspicion. “Forgive me, Ib-Akhora, but where have you been?”

And there it was. The expected demand. Truly, she was surprised it had taken this long for someone to ask it of her. 

Saldís stared at him. Simply stared, and sweat began to dot his forehead. Then, she abruptly ended his torment. “I believe that is for Ar-Cavendor and my lord Kimilzor to ask. But you are right to question, Weapon…?” 

“Hilliz,” the big man answered. “Of House Mordhalor.”

“Ne-Hilliz,” she said. “You do credit to your House.” To the rest of the guards, “The rest of you can explain to your lords why you’ve become lax.”

Back to Hilliz. “I must report to Lord Sangahyando. Where is Kimilzor now?”

“He is no longer Lord Sangahyando,” Mahris answered with a laugh that sent chills down Saldís’s spine. By Durin, the Weapon was worse than ever. Mahris all but giggled with glee. 

Saldís looked to the saner Hilliz and lifted one brow. The Weapon shot an uneasy look Mahris’s way before answering. “Ar-Nahlis is now Lord Sangahyando. I’ll take you to Ar-Tagan. _After_ you’ve surrendered your weapons.” A glance beyond her. “And your prisoners.”

“Of course.” Saldís began to remove the Gondorian swords strapped to her back. “The older dwarf escaped us before,” she told the big man. “Watch him closely.”

Dark eyes flicked Hlein’s way. 

“I can ensure he never attempts to leave again,” Mahris suggested, abruptly cool and businesslike. 

“You will not,” Saldís countered calmly. She pulled one of the dwarves’ daggers from her belt and displayed it to the rest on open palms. Truly, it was an impressive blade. “Damage my prisoners, and you’ll answer to Ar-Tagan. Here is proof of their weapon-smithing skills. The dwarves are a valuable commodity.” Her lips quirked. “My present to the Duumvirate.”

Mahris leaned in, whistling. Greedy eyes ran over the blade like a lover. “He made this?”

“The older dwarf forged it, yes,” Saldís lied. In truth, the blade was Ragan’s work. Hlein had assured her, however, that his own smithing skills would pass muster.

Hilliz lifted the dagger. By the twitch of one eyebrow, she knew him impressed. He next handed it to another, older Weapon. That fast, her dwarves had earned themselves protectors, souls who would do their utmost to ensure the two of them never set foot outside of Caeldor again.

Once more facing her, Hilliz nodded shortly. “Cabharon, Bavizor, Nathar, take the dwarves to the Slaves’ Den. Don’t let them out of your sight.” Three guards separated themselves, claimed the lead chain from Saldís, and moved them out. Finnin’s fingers brushed hers as he passed Saldís by. 

“If you’ll accompany me to the Seat, Ib-Akhora?” Hilliz gestured Saldís to precede him. 

The last time Tagan had questioned her returned to her mind in vivid detail. Still, she strode forward confidently, not permitting any doubts to show themselves on her face. She’d survived the last time. She’d survive this time.

_Du-bekâr._


	40. Hope and Loss

The Ranger Orodon slowly retreated, nerves vibrating in alarm. Ar-Nahlis, Ar-Aemazia, and Ar-Kavish had removed The Brothers’ head scarves, and instantly, the three lords commenced with muttering among themselves, accusing one another and the other three Houses’ commanders when each denied recognizing the three.

Their attention turned to the tattoos the three fallen Rangers sported. Inevitable, Orodon knew, but his heart sank. That fast, the symbol that had served as a beacon of sorts to Novices became a liability. Once the leaders questioned their underlings, they’d discover many had caught glimpse of Weapons wearing the rune the last few days. 

_Time to depart._ Remaining in the city now was a fool’s act for the Rangers wearing the mark. He spared a thought to hope the dwarf, Finnur’s, masking powder proved effective. If not, Orodon’s usefulness in Caeldor was over. 

Something tugged upon the hem of his shirt. Urgently. Insistently. The Ranger halted and bit off a curse. He’d have to strike down the too-observant witness without drawing attention to himself. His fingers twitched, a split-second from snatching up the dagger at his side.

But then he spotted the source: a white-blond boy wearing a roughly-drawn tattoo under his uncannily black eyes. The boy had tried to mimic what he’d likely seen only once. Eru, but the boy couldn’t be more than ten years old. Eight, more likely. 

“Hurry, Brother,” the boy whispered so softly that Orodon almost lost the words altogether. “We cannot rescue them now.”

Brother. _By the Valar._ Emotions rushed through the Ranger, foremost among them elation mixed with a sour-tasting fear for his fallen friends. This boy was proof the Black Company’s efforts had not been in vain. 

The kid was right. There was nothing Orodon could do for Berenor, Calenor, and Erynor. Not right now. 

A quick decision. He’d get the child to safety. Find out what the kid believed was occurring. Someone willing to revolt against the Duumvirate with what he believed was a faction of his own people was not necessarily one willing to join the Black Company once he learned who they really were. 

Still, the Ranger took heart. The Company had won their first Novice. Where there was one, there could be more. 

With a minute dip of the head, Orodon and his new tow-headed brother slipped from the crowd.

OoOoOo

_  
**Ruins of Dol Hamoth, Tovennen**  
_

Nori rocked upon his heels, one hand stroking his beard and his attention fixed near his feet where the map Kyri and Finnur had completed but a day before was spread upon the cracked pavement underfoot. He, Finnur, Goira, and Kai had been discussing weaknesses in Caeldor’s defenses, each dwarf suggesting ideas for the raid they all anticipated with little patience.

Nori wanted it over. His niece safe, his missing brother and friends found, and a happy ending for all. _Ye don’t ask for much, do you,_ he groused at himself in irritation.

A sudden noise in the canyon below brought his head up. Then a voice shattered the silence—a deep, dwarvish voice. 

“That’s Kyri,” Kai instantly identified, the silversmith’s long face betraying his alarm.

Nori scooped up the map, rolled it, and thrust it at Finnur before jogging along the length of the ruins to the stairs. By Mahal, what now? 

Dís had been gone only hours, and Nori’s nerves were stretched to parchment thinness. Mayhap ‘twas the mantle of leadership that was the source, but the ex-thief could not escape the feeling something was going to go wrong. It always did. 

The four dwarves reached the landing, and for himself, Nori’s worries intensified as he watched their sculptor race up the crumbling stone stairs as if a deadly drop was not a simple misstep away. 

“Nori,” the dwarf gasped the moment he reached them. “It’s bad, I’m telling you.”

“What?” Kai burst before Nori could. The silversmith grabbed his older brother by the shoulders, eyes a shade darker green than his sibling’s rushing over him and plainly checking for injuries. 

“Let him speak, _Kiduzel,”_ Goira murmured (gold of all golds). The healer placed a hand on her love’s back. 

“The Brothers…were discovered,” Kyri managed between gulps of air. “All of Caeldor was after them. Lord Hlein…was preparin’ to play Saldís’s slave and…Finnin was gettin’ set to…use Finnur’s toys.”

_Before_ Dís’s return? The Black Company would be hard pressed to weather the wrath of the Black Númenóreans without the reinforcements she’d rushed off to procure them. ‘Twas the reason the dam had left! 

Nori stared at their sculptor for one long moment. Then he erupted in such coarse language as to curl Dori’s hair had his brother deigned to show up, and by Durin’s iron beard, he dearly wished his brother and friends would do just that. _What is keeping you, Dori?_

Saldís. Playing Akhora once more. 

She’d do it, Nori knew that. His niece was no coward to shy away from hard choices. Aye, Saldís would do whatever needed doing regardless of the cost to herself. But by Mahal, it made a dwarf almost wish she was a more retiring sort. Just this once, for after hearing of her struggles, he did not want her playacting that which she feared the most.

_Mahal._ He twirled his favored dagger in agitated repetition. Was it time then to strike openly? _Mayhap._ But mayhap not quite yet, especially if “Akhora” could calm things down. His jaw clenched. He’d wait until he could clap eyes on the situation himself. 

Nori returned the blade to its sheath. “Grab your gear, Finnur. All o’ it. Healer?” Goira’s green eyes rushed to Nori’s. “I want you and Kai in the tunnels we discovered. Set up an infirmary and erase all signs we’ve been here.”

By Durin’s bloody ax, he hoped the precaution proved unnecessary.

The healer’s head bobbed in a businesslike fashion, no fear at all to be seen in her determined face. When Nori tossed a significant look Kai’s way, he received a second such reaction.

“Kyri, Finnur, you’re with me.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Caeldor, Tovennen**  
_

Novice Yahzin huddled against a building along the south side of the street, her eyes locked upon the tableau before her. The stranger who’d attacked Ar-Tagan, Hand Guitan and Ib-Hokkan bled from a number of wounds, and his easy agility had degenerated to jerky desperation. Doomed, she thought numbly. Why had he tried to take on three of their leaders at once?

_For…me._ She did not recognize him, but her heart told her he was somehow linked to Akhora. He attempted to protect Yahzin as Akhora had promised. It was the only explanation. 

_By the Eye._ Fingers pressed hard into her forehead. Anger surged, and she dashed away a stray tear. _No one asked him to interfere,_ she hissed to herself in spite. _This isn’t my fault._

_Your choice,_ returned to her in Akhora’s voice. It robbed her anger of strength, leaving Yahzin to buckle under a flood of guilt. 

Yahzin had chosen, alright. The wrong choice. She’d believed Akhora had lied to her, Tested her…and thrown away a prize worth more than all the riches in the world. Safety. Laughter. Love. How she hungered to know what the words meant. But Yahzin hadn’t believed the older Weapon. 

_Not true,_ a part of her countered softly. 

That was a truth too heavy to be borne, and she moaned lowly, her head dropping onto her knees. She’d known. Deep inside where the fragment of the girl she’d once been dwelled, the girl who’d dreamed of beautiful dresses and courtly dances, her imagination filling in for sights she’d never seen.

No. The truth was she hadn’t dared to believe. She had rejected any thoughts otherwise in self-preservation. _Coward,_ she labeled herself bleakly, her chest tight. She slammed her head back into the wall behind her.

What had she done? With watery eyes, she flinched as another fiery orb slammed into the man’s shoulder, causing him to grimace in pain. He didn’t give up, but it was just a matter of time now. Yahzin knew Guitan’s skills, and Ar-Tagan’s. The stranger would die, and Yahzin would soon follow him. Tagan was sure to kill her.

_I’m sorry,_ that fragment of the Yahzin-who-wasn’t whispered. 

What had she done? She’d destroyed all hope. That’s what she’d done.

OoOoOo

Finnin barely reacted when the thick wooden door slammed shut behind him, leaving himself and Hlein in a bare four foot by four foot room and still shackled together in the restraints Finnur had modified for them. A scuff with one boot revealed beneath the loose bed of straw was solid rock.

“No window this time,” Hlein murmured at his side. 

Nay, no window. The warrior rotated his shoulders, unhappy with that finding. He’d come to be an anchor for his Saldís since her sire wasn’t present to do so. Instead, he was locked away from her sight. A wonderful reminder he’d be this way.

Hlein’s hand wrapped around Finnur’s wrist above the manacle. “They have to let us out to forge the weapons they’re after, lad.”

True. Finnin exhaled in a rush. The older dwarf lord had it right.

Without further ado, the two dwarves proceeded to inspect every inch of their cell. If there was a weakness to be found other than the door (wood? truly?), they’d discover it. The wee tools hidden within the shackles would be all they’d need to take advantage of it. 

Nay, it was not time to act. Not yet. But when it came, the dwarves intended to be ready.

OoOoOo

_Urkhas kûd._ Nori had near put his emala in the ground with the pace he’d demanded from it, and still it had not been fast enough.

He lowered the spyglass he’d confiscated from Ragan, the scratchy cloth they’d been using to conceal themselves draped over his head. His gaze tilted over one shoulder, bringing Finnur into view. Out of sight of the valley, the lad was, but not in Ragan’s hole in the ground. The inventor clutched his big ax in two hands, his jaw working. 

Finnur worried something fierce about his brother, Nori knew. Nori was of a mind to agree with him. This situation left much to be desired.

Should the worst come to pass… Familiar faces filled his mind, those of the souls the Black Company fought to protect. Bombur. Dwalin. Pretty Svelldis, the warrior dam Nori had exchanged many fine slurs with. Had Dwalin yet realized the lass pined for his overgrown self?

_Likely not._ Dwalin was as blind to such things as Gloin. Hopeless, the both o’ them, and if not for Gloin’s wife taking matters into her own hands, Gloin would still be a clueless bachelor. 

Nori’s resolve hardened. If the worst came to pass, Nori would ensure this viper’s nest was destroyed even if it cost the Black Company their lives. ‘Twas what Dís expected and what Thorin would demand for their people’s sake.

In a voice pitched not to carry, Nori told the black-haired dwarf on his belly beside him, “Barhador’s taken on Ar-Tagan and one o’ the Hands by himself. He’ll not survive without aid. Ye said Medlinor and Himon are outside the city?”

“Aye,” Ragan said. “Been squirreling away the stolen weapons. All but emptied Caeldor’s armory, to hear them tell it.”

“Ragan? Find Himon. Tell him what’s happening. Barhador needs him.”

With a bob of the head, the other dwarf slunk from beneath the fabric shroud and scrambled away from the canyon’s edge on all fours. Risky, to have his kindred rushing about in broad daylight, but given the events transpiring below, Nori gambled that none of the enemy was looking outside their valley.

A thought and he added, “Ragan?” The other dwarf skidded to a halt. “After that, fetch me Kyri.” He’d left the sculptor a distance from the city, standing watch over a handful of _emala._ “Tell him to tie the birds down as best he can, but I want him here.”

The warrior sped off, his boots churning up desert sand enough to flag his position for any soul caring to look. _Mahal grant no one looks._

Nori lifted the spyglass once more. _Barhador failing. The Brothers captured. Saldís…_ He found her again, walking between two escorts, and by Durin’s iron beard, Nori didn’t care for that at all. He’d sworn to his _umral_ that he’d protect her. Little good his presence did when he was up here and Saldís down there. 

Tempting, indeed, to issue a battle cry and lead the charge into Caeldor. Very tempting, but also foolhardy without the additional numbers Dís had sworn to bring. 

So. ‘Twas time for some precautions. 

Nori left the canyon’s lip and wormed his way to Finnur in a hurry. There, he crouched, tugging the lad down to his level. “So. Finnur. Just how much o’ that fire powder have ye got left?”

If the very worst came to pass, Nori intended to see Caeldor’s cliffs brought down on the hidden city before he left its people free to march north. Aye, he’d see this den o’ wickedness buried under tons of rock before he’d let that come to pass.

OoOoOo

Despite his determination, Barhador’s body slowed. His swords flew more on instinct, the battle too swift to permit thought. The Ranger dodged the razor edge of Guitan’s curved blade, wincing when it tore into the fabric of his trousers and gouged his flesh.

Time and again, Barhador endeavored to lunge towards Ar-Tagan, and the gray-haired Arcanist’s wounds testified to the Ranger’s marginal success. Tagan sprawled on a squat flight of stairs leading up to the mess hall, blood drenching his attire at neck, chest, arm, and thigh. The Arcanist fought for every breath. 

But Tagan’s fiery volleys did not cease. They faltered at times and turned sluggish, but they resumed, inevitably each time Barhador dared to hope the man had nothing more to give. 

The Ranger’s injuries compounded. Guitan’s snake construct, whip, and scimitar had written their own tales upon his flesh. A slash from Guitan’s sword had opened up a line across his brow that bled profusely, endangering his vision, and another had opened his right calf. Barhador gritted his teeth, forcing the limb to function despite its howling protests. He could not yield to weaknesses. Not when death hounded his steps. 

Tagan, too, had struck crucial hits. Burns had seared patches of clothing from Barhador’s body, leaving behind red, blistered skin. This, too, Barhador could not attend to. His flesh blazed with agony, but there was nothing to be done about it. He permitted himself no quarter.

Suddenly, the dread blanketing the area intensified still more, reaching a crescendo that stole his breath. The Ranger’s eyes flicked to Ar-Tagan. His brow furrowed.

The Arcanist’s eyes were blank. _No, not blank. Drawn inward._ Tagan’s lips moved, and terror began to leech all color from the man’s face until he more resembled a corpse. 

_What is this?_

Whatever the cause, Tagan’s focus was elsewhere. The barrage of fireballs ended—this time, Barhador hoped, for good. The Ranger threw his full attention into bringing Guitan down fast and hard.

Tagan screamed, the sound unholy and jarring. Barhador startled, and the Hand faltered. Guitan’s head whipped around. Both combatants witnessed as Tagan’s glowing pendant lifted itself into the air as if by some invisible hand…and shattered. 

Barhador seized upon the moment of distraction. Marshaling all he had left in his battered body, he leaped at the Hand. Not a part of his body did not roar in agony at the effort. _Finish it._ Both scimitars flew.

Guitan twisted, spinning in a belated leap of his own. Barhador’s right blade missed its target, cutting through the air where the Hand’s feet had been but a blink before. The other slammed into the man’s right shoulder and chest, biting deep enough to nick his spine. 

Victory. 

Down the Hand crashed, his scimitar rattling free from a slackened grip. The earthen serpent disintegrated into a column of dirt. 

Choking and panting, Guitan’s blue eyes glared balefully as the Ranger shuffled closer. Crimson red poured from the Arcanist’s body, spilling across the stone street. “Traitor,” Guitan managed, his lips pulling back in a toothy snarl. 

A punch rocked Barhador from behind. Shock. A blade tip appeared, protruding from the Ranger’s chest. A surreal feeling stole over the him, and the strength left his knees. Barhador collapsed, his blood soon intermingling with Guitan’s. 

“Yes, die with me,” Guitan rasped, then he coughed on a laugh. “I’ll see you in the Pit, traitor.”

_No._ Desperation filled his spirit. No, not yet.

Barhador clung to consciousness with all his might. On knees with one hand supporting him, he fumbled for a sword—when had he lost them? A questing hand located a hilt. He dragged the weapon to him, wondering at how it heavy it felt.

With difficulty, blood spurting from his chest wound with each agonizing exhalation, he levered it up. With Guitan glaring all the while, he brought the blade down. Hand Guitan, at least, was no more.

Barhador crumpled onto his left side. _I’m not finished,_ a part of him howled. _Eru, not yet._ Not until Tagan was slain.

But it seemed Barhador was destined to fail. No matter the demands he made on his body, it remained unresponsive. 

A shuffling sound approached. _Shush. Step. Shush. Step._ It halted when a shadow blotted out the sun. Through cracked eyes, the Ranger saw Ar-Tagan looming over him, the other man swaying on his feet. Sunlight glinted off the athame the gray-haired man held in his left hand. 

_So. It is here I meet my death._ His wife’s beautiful face swam before his mind’s eye. Their courtship, their wedding day, and the memory of their children’s births each took a turn in his heart. He had lived a blessed life, one full of hardship, yes, but also love and laughter. Soft wings of peace brushed over him. Barhador had no regrets. 

“You will die in pain,” the Arcanist wheezed. “Do you have any…idea what you’ve…cost me?”

Given the spectacular destruction of the man’s Eye pendant and the virulent animosity blasting down at him, Barhador suspect Sauron had looked in on his underling, and what he’d found had not made the Dark Lord happy. 

Barhador’s lips twitched. “Your…Master…displeased…with you, Ar-Tagan?”

“Because of your interference, I have failed him!” the man shrieked, spittle dripping from his lips. 

The world continued to dim.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t get to die so easily.” The Arcanist painfully lowered himself, that athame still in hand, and a glimmer of fear brushed across Barhador’s mind. He’d heard about Tagan’s obscene ability to keep a soul locked in its body beyond what nature intended.

But then, someone else appeared behind Tagan, unseen and unheard. A too-young face filled with a world of conflict and rage. The girl’s blade flashed, and the life fled from Tagan’s shocked eyes before his body fell across Guitan’s. 

There the girl stood, chest heaving, crimson-painted blade outstretched and limbs shaking. 

Looking at her brought Saldís to mind. This girl could be her. Regret touched him then, regret that he hadn’t known of his niece’s plight. He hadn’t rescued her as a child. 

What he couldn’t do for Saldís, perhaps he could for this young one. Perhaps…perhaps there was one last shred of good to be done before death claimed him. “Daughter…of kings,” Barhador managed. 

The girl’s attention snapped to him, her face white with shock and fear. 

“Find my brethren…child,” He coughed, iron blood heavy upon his tongue. “They’ll…protect you.”

“Protect me?” she echoed. Her throat convulsed with a heavy swallow. “Why did you do it? Why risk your life for mine?”

_Not yet,_ Barhador begged as his soul began to hear Mandos calling for him, beckoning his spirit home.

“You…” He struggled to bring the girl back into focus. “Ours,” he slurred. “Daugh…Daughter of kings.”

Then his son’s face filled his vision, twisted into lines of horrible grief. “Father.” 

“Thannor.” Mandos’s call grew louder. More insistent. “She…ours. _Your_ daughter…please. Don’t let…” Did his son understand? Barhador could no longer see. 

What Bifur had done for Saldís, Thannor must do for this child. 

A hand clasped his and squeezed it tightly. A hitched inhalation. “It will be done as you wish. She will be my daughter from this moment forth. You need not worry for her. By my blood, I swear it.”

“Thann’r,” Barhador managed. “My s’n. Love y…”

OoOoOo

High above, Nori bowed his head. The spyglass almost slipped from his fingers. Himon raced across Caeldor’s rooftops with blurred speed, the archer Anuon right behind, but they were too late. ‘Twas plain to the ex-thief that Barhador was gone.

 _Mahal._ Dashing tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand, Nori again lifted the spyglass.

OoOoOo

Thannor’s heart contracted as horrifying loss swept over him. His father, mentor, and brother-at-arms was gone, ripping a monstrous hole in his heart.

His hand fisted, and his head dropped back, his throat clenching as he held in a shout of denial. He struggled to breathe through the pain. But no. Mourning was a luxury he could not afford. Not yet. A shaky exhale escaped through his lips as he accepted that unforgiving truth.

Eyesight wavering through a sheen of tears, Thannor reached out an unsteady hand and closed his father’s empty eyes, his chest burning. He swiveled on one knee to face the girl. 

_My daughter now._ Thannor had seen her act in his father’s defense, and he knew himself forever in her debt. Even had his father not requested it, Thannor would have done all he could to see this child whisked away from this bleak land. 

This girl did not know it, but her days of fighting alone were over. Berenor and his siblings would shower her with affection and probably drive her mad with their determination to protect her. Thannor could easily envision it, and a ghost of a smile lifted his lips, bringing with it a sense of continuity. His father was gone, but his family would continue and be richer by one this day. 

By Eru, he, Thannor of the Dunedain, would protect and cherish this scarred woman-child as one born to him. This, he swore. 

His resolve firmed. _I must to get her away from here._ His eyes swept the area. Whatever disturbance had emptied this street, it could not last much longer. 

“My name is Thannor,” he said softly, aware of the distrust and fearful hope radiating from the blond girl. She was near the age of thirteen, he estimated. About his youngest son, Conor’s, age. Pretty, too, with her long ash blond hair, green eyes, and delicate face. 

“Why?” she demanded. “Why did he…?” Her voice broke, and her spine stiffened belligerently. “I didn’t ask for this!” Then in a harsh voice, “If you think I’ll be used like a broodmare…”

Thannor rose swiftly. “Never,” he denied. “So long as I draw breath, that will not be your fate.”

Big green eyes blinked, so afraid to hope it hurt to witness it. With one hand, Thannor gently grasped her shoulder before she could evade him. “On my honor, I swear it. You are no longer alone.”

Her chin trembled, and her face betrayed her inner turmoil, but she said nothing.

Quietly, he added, “Time is not our friend. We must away. We cannot be found here.” 

Her spine straightened. She nodded shortly. 

“I cannot abandon my father’s body to abuse and defilement. Will you aid me? Will you help me get him out of the city?”

“To go where?” she burst. “Where does Akhora think we can go? Who would take us?”

Thannor absorbed the implication of her words. _So. She is the Novice who saw my cousin’s face._ “Can you trust me long enough to wait for answers?” he asked. “Akhora is my kinswoman by blood. When she told you we were here to save you, she spoke for us all.”

“All?” Deeper distrust flashed upon her face. “How many of you are there?”

He answered truthfully. “Too few for the task before us.”

“Saving us?” The words emerged half scornful, half pleading.

“Yes.”

“Why?” she demanded angrily.

Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, he bent his knees until they stood the same height. “Because once the Dunedain heard of your plight, there was no stopping us from coming to the aid of our young kinsmen.”

Her eyes widened. A slow, tentative nod followed, one that told him how difficult it was for her to bestow even this crumb of trust upon him. 

“Your name?” he asked as he leaned down to grab his father’s torso. The girl was there in a flash, helping him to heft his father over his shoulder. For a moment, Thannor’s sight blurred again to witness his father’s body broken and lifeless. _Oh, Eru. What will this do to Grandmother?_

“Yahzin,” she whispered.

Thannor forced his grief aside once more. There would be time to mourn his father later. “Come, Yahzin. It is time you joined your true people.” 

Before they’d taken a dozen steps, Himon and Anuon were there to aid them. With his friends’ help, Thannor set about smuggling his new daughter out of the city.

OoOoOo

“What has happened here?” Saldís questioned her escort as they turned onto the street leading to the Seat. For a moment, she thought she caught a glimpse of Anuon’s fiery red curls vanishing down an alleyway, and she tensed. Surely the Rangers knew what was afoot by now. Why had they not fled the city?

“Ar-Tagan will ask the questions,” Hilliz said shortly. 

Mahris cackled in delight. “Noticed the lack of people, have you, Akhora?”

Saldís weighed options, eyes returning to that alley despite herself. She had to establish her credibility. And to do that, she only had one currency in hand: knowledge of Umbar. “I trust you emptied Umbar for the same reason this city is empty?” she said at last. “The war begins?”

"The Corsairs have moved to Pelarg…” Hilliz’s words drifted into nothingness as the three caught sight of the scene splayed before them. 

_By Durin._ Saldís tensed, every sense on alert and eyes swift to scan her surroundings. Mahris began to laugh. Hilliz stared at Ar-Tagan’s body, absolutely rigid. 

Aye, well he should be. Black Númenóreans jockeyed for position. That went without saying. But to find Ar-Tagan, Hand Guitan and Ib-Hokkan all slain would send shock waves through the city. This, she feared, would put The Brothers in infinitely greater danger.

Still, an opportunity was an opportunity. Only a fool would throw it away. “Mahris, find me Ar-Aemazia. Now,” she ordered. As the senior-most Arcanist lord in Caeldor, it would fall to Lord Berúthiel to step into Tagan’s shoes now that Tagan had been eradicated. (What had happened that caused the Dunedain to strike down Cealdor’s leadership so precipitously?)

Mahris’s head whipped towards her, but Saldís strode towards Tagan’s body without waiting. “Ne-Hilliz?”

A pause. A soft footfall following at a slower pace. “Ib-Akhora?” he asked, the words tentative. Reluctant. 

_I’ll take reluctant._ “Find me the nearest Arcanist. I don’t care if it’s a Novice. I want eyes on this street, and I want them now.”

“Our feline numbers have been reduced,” Mahris commented. 

Saldís turned to frown at the other woman. “When I am reinstated, we’ll be having words, Ne-Mahris, about you wasting time while traitors slip away.”

A wary look. A sudden uncertainty. Then Mahris sprinted away. A second set of footsteps, Hilliz’s, departed as well.

Saldís knelt by Tagan’s body, a big worm of unease slithering up her spine. Tagan. Dead. _Berúthiel’s cats, what else has gone wrong this day?_ One or more of the Company had been compelled to act, but why? 

A quick scan brought a measure of reassurance. None of the bodies showed damage cause by anything other than Black Númenórean weapons. And… She leaned forward, fingertips halting inches away from the curiosity that had grabbed her attention. Her lips twitched. 

_Your Master unhappy with you, Ar-Tagan?_ The damage to the Arcanist’s pendant was the doing of no mortal hand. The metal looked to have splintered like wood under extreme pressure. Could it be Sauron was responsible for these three deaths?

Her brow creased. Saldís again eyed the scene. Nay, she decided. A battle had been waged here. And… 

A cold fist clenched suddenly around her innards. _A body has been removed._ Her Fingers brushed the air above a pool of blood that had been smeared. The large splotch made no sense otherwise. 

A Ranger. The cold fist grew colder. Taking down Tagan, Guitan, and Hokkan would not be easy. Which of the Dunedain had been involved? Had any met his end here? 

_Not my family,_ she selfishly pleaded of Eru. By her soul, she’d not had time to really know them. 

_If you find this too distressing,_ Akhora cooed, _I’ll be happy to take over._

_Itkit._ Saldís slowly stood to step over Tagan’s body, leaving the splotch. By the scorch marks and angry red flesh upon Guitan’s arm, the Hand had suffered from friendly fire. 

Not for a second did she believe the two Arcanists had turned upon one another. Sadly, no one would. Guitan was many things, but he’d never have turned upon the Duumvirate.

‘Twas then that Hilliz returned with three teenaged Novices in tow. Novices from Hilliz's own House, she assumed, given the distrust running rampant through the city. Without batting an eye, she commanded, “Can you secure this street?”

Three heads bobbed in unison, their eyes slightly rounded. 

“Good. Use whatever animals you can reach.” And Mahal grant the Rangers had slipped away. To Hilliz, “Increase the guard at both mouths of the canyon. I don’t want anything going in or out without Ar-Aemazia’s permission.” A moment’s hesitation, then she forced herself to add, “Find out if any have passed either position in the last hour, too.”

This time, the man responded with alacrity, obeying her orders. 

With only three Novices for company, Saldís waited. Soon, Aemazia would arrive. The old man was not Tagan’s equal in sadistic tortures (thank Mahal), but he was no doddering fool. She set herself to inspecting each of the bodies, hoping to have more to relay to the Arcanist when he arrived.

For now, her job was simple: regain the trust of Caeldor’s leadership. All else would have to wait.


	41. Consequences of our Choices

Yahzin tailed behind the shaggy-haired man—Thannor, she silently repeated to herself—as he wound his way from shadow to shadow, guiding Yahzin and his two compatriots closer to Caeldor’s western edge, his father’s corpse slung over one shoulder. His path carried them ever closer to her barracks, increasing their peril with each step. 

Yahzin drew her sword, and something grew in her chest when Thannor looked back, saw her with sword, and nodded shortly. He was choosing to trust her.

_Her._ Yahzin inhaled shakily.

Uncertainty plagued her footsteps. _What are you doing,_ an inner voice cried. If she but called out, these men would be discovered. Danger would pass her by. No one would know of her failure to report Akhora’s treason, and everything would return to normal. 

_Except me,_ came the whisper-soft realization. That man had died for her, and she would never be the same again.

Thannor. Her eyes drifted over the man. He’d claimed kinship with Akhora, and the more she studied him, the more she saw the resemblance. He did not have Akhora’s distinctive hairline, but he possessed the same nose and brow. To him, Yahzin dared to extend a measure of fledgling trust.

The other Rangers were another matter. Thannor’s father had died to save her from Tagan and Guitan, giving her hope. But she couldn’t find it in herself to stretch her trust any wider.

She’d pay him back. If the opportunity arose, by the Eye, she’d pay this man back. 

And so, she kept her focus on their surroundings and remained close by the tall man. If any should spot Thannor and his unwieldy burden, Yahzin was committed to acting on his behalf. 

The three Rangers functioned in harmony like nothing she’d seen before. Black Númenóreans worked together—how not?—but never with the unquestioning trust in one another these three exhibited. No, these men were not Black Númenóreans. 

Any doubts were laid to rest. The Dunedain had come for them, for Caeldor’s young. She and the other Novices were wanted. 

Ah, but would these Rangers of the North prove different enough? Or would their masks slip, revealing characters as twisted with greed and malice as any Black Númenórean?

_They’re different,_ she told herself. _They have to be._

Despite a fear grounded in too many hurts and betrayals, Yahzin continued to trust. Perhaps she was a fool, but she could not resist hope’s allure this time. Instead of rejecting it, she cradled it protectively, willing it to survive. 

Yes, she hoped. So much that it scared her.

OoOoOo

Thannor cursed, the arm not pinning his father’s legs to his chest whipping out to bar Yahzin from taking another step. He eased them back out of sight. His first glimpse of the western end of the canyon shredded any plans of an easy egress from that direction. Like its eastern counterpart, it was heavily guarded, and not solely by men. Thannor’s brief glimpse had revealed a couple of desert lynxes on the heights above the canyon mouth, their attention on the road below them.

 _Eru._ His throat convulsed, his lips flat. Thannor’s gaze sought Anuon’s, then Himon’s. In each, he read the same conclusion he’d reached: attempting either entrance to the canyon now would end in certain capture. 

The Ranger’s attention dipped to his new daughter. Yahzin was quiet on her feet, and skilled at moving with stealth. To be expected, he supposed. Though the Ranger had caught glimpses of turmoil on her face, she said not one word. Each time he directed, she obeyed without question. 

Thannor was thankful for that. He’d have understood if she resisted him at every turn, but instead, she seemed determined to trust him. He promised never to damage that fragile faith, for he knew its value. 

Again, he sought Himon. With Barhador’s death, the thin, fidgety Ranger became the oldest Ranger within the Black Company, and Thannor knew better than to discount the other man’s wealth of experience. 

Himon’s lips pursed, and his gaze lifted to the heights above. Though his right hand grasped a stolen scimitar, the left glinted with silver as the silver Arnor coin progressed between digits—thumb to small finger and back again—in a smooth, unbroken pattern. 

Himon seemed to come to a decision. The coin vanished from view. Without any hesitation, he led them away from the guarded exit, skirting their enemy and all animals with painstaking care. More than once, the four sought cover as Black Númenóreans passed. 

Escaping Caeldor, Thannor thought, was not going to be easy.

OoOoOo

“What’s Orodon doing now?” Nori demanded in a low voice, gaze clapped upon the image within his spyglass—that of Orodon risking detection by inching close to the edge of a main thoroughfare to do something Nori could not quite make out.

Nori didn’t doubt but that the Rangers below had reason for their actions, but Nori was tempted to pull his beard out in frustration. Too few of the Black Company had slipped from Caeldor before the canyon ends were bottled up like cork stoppers. 

From his left, golden-haired Medlinor answered, the man’s vivid green eyes locked (Nori presumed) upon his cousin, Himon. The two bands of Rangers remaining in the city were nearing one another, thankfully. It would make rescuing the lot o’ them that much simpler. “We discussed it last night.” 

“Mind letting a dwarf in on the plan, then?” Nori asked.

Ranger Glinor shifted where he lay on Nori’s right, his brown eyes never leaving his companions below. “We needed to blind the Arcanists.”

Medlinor grunted in agreement. “Their animal spies are a menace.” 

Glinor’s lips twitched. Only a handful of years older than The Brothers, the slender Ranger’s youthful face lit with amusement. “We’ve been leaving our kitty cat friends some treats.”

Treats? Nori turned to Medlinor for explanation. 

“We’ve been leaving out small portions of poisoned food along the rooftops and in random corners,” the Ranger clarified in a distracted tone. “Food suitable to felines, rodents, and birds.”

Nori scratched his jowl, then he nodded. A good thought, that was. The Company had experienced too many close calls for Nori’s peace of mind as it was. 

“I fear Thannor will not leave Caeldor without his son,” Medlinor said.

“Likely not,” Glinor agreed. “Anuon will balk as well.”

Nori couldn’t disagree. Nor would he blame either. If ‘twas Dori down there, death alone would stop Nori from attempting to rescue him.

With a short exhale, Nori set that concern aside in lieu of the bigger one. How in Durin’s blazing forge were they to extricate their companions from Caeldor with the city on such heightened alert? With each minute that passed, the likelihood that they’d be discovered rose. That, he feared, would be the end o’ this fine mission of theirs. 

“What we’re needing, lads,” Nori said at last, “is a distraction.” 

Medlinor’s head whipped around. “A distraction would be useful,” he agreed cautiously.

Nori slithered away from the canyon’s edge on his belly, jerking on Glinor’s sleeve as he passed. “Glinor, lad, I’ll need your help to track down Finnur.” _Mahal grant he’s not been captured._ “Medlinor, you stay put. Ragan, Kyri? You, too. Be ready to haul our friends up the cliff by rope. You’ll know when.”

“That, Master Dwarf,” he heard Medlinor saw softly, “I’ll hold you to.”

Once out of the city’s line of sight, Nori signaled Glinor to track down their inventor. If’n a distraction was needed, Mahal had provided the Black Company with the perfect dwarf to see it done.

OoOoOo

Thannor startled when unexpected additions joined their group. Only a quick lunge kept Yahzin from attacking. “Wait,” he murmured in her ear.

Green eyes flew to him, but she abated. 

Orodon reached them first, eyebrows raised upon spying Yahzin crouched next to Thannor. He was quickly followed by Thalon and a young boy sporting the Khuzdul rune (Thannor blinked at that) under his eye. 

Had none of the Rangers, then, escaped Caeldor before this trap had snapped shut around them?

The boy hissed when he spotted Yahzin, his face contorting with anger. “What are _you_ doing here?” he growled softly, and the hairs on Thannor’s nape rose on end at the threat pouring off the youngster. In a blink, a long knife appeared in the boy’s hand.

The Ranger pressed one hand to Yahzin’s shoulder, a wordless bid for silence even as Orodon shoved the boy’s blade down. 

“Now is not the time, Glivin,” Thalon whispered in his deep voice.

“But she betrayed The Brotherhood,” the boy objected. “She turned our brothers in.”

Brotherhood? His belly congealed into a lump of ice. As Yahzin seemed to shrink before him, the tiny flame of hope upon her face dying, Thannor lifted his chin in silent demand, eyes upon Orodon. At his other side, Anuon stepped closer. 

The tanned Ranger quietly revealed, “Berenor and his friends were taken, Thannor.” The words were like a punch. “They protected Glivin here, and a Novice from House Vinuir witnessed it.”

“She reported it,” Glivin hissed. His dark eyes left no question as to who “she” was.

_Eru._ For a single beat of his heart, Thannor couldn’t breathe. Berenor in then hands of these monsters? His son? By Yahzin’s hand?

He was barely cognizant of Anuon turning away, hand to his face. 

Thannor’s eyes slid closed. The scene he’d discovered now made perfect sense. Yahzin—the one soul who knew Akhora for a traitor—rushing to report traitors to her leaders. Barhador intervening. The risk his father had taken now made sense. He’d been protecting Saldís and the mission as well as attempting to save a child. 

Yes, that was just like Barhador, and Thannor’s hold on his father’s body tightened. A glimmer of grief-stained pride touched him, and he took a deep breath, sparing one moment to thank Eru for the father he’d been given. In Thannor’s eyes, there could be no better. 

But the press of unseen eyes demanded his attention. A glance revealed Yahzin staring at him without expression. She waited for him to turn on her, he intuitively sensed. That fragile, precious trust began to shed petals, withering before the anticipated heat of his fury could scorch her. 

A hard, meaningful look passed from Himon to Orodon. The tanned Ranger began whispering to the boy. 

Thannor nudged his new daughter’s chin towards him even as his innards curdled with fear for his son. “This isn’t your fault,” he told her.

Her lips parted. 

“I have claimed you as my daughter, Yahzin. This changes nothing.” And by the Valar, he meant it.

A wounded expression crossed her face, one shorn of artifice. “I thought it was a Test,” she confessed in a hollow voice. “Just another Test.” Then her chin wrenched from his grasp, and her eyes squeezed shut. “No,” she managed. “That’s a lie. I was afraid. I was _afraid.”_

Thannor gathered her close with his free arm, his hold gentle. He ignored the way she stiffened. With lips near her ear, he said, “This is none of your doing, child. Blame lies at the feet of those who molded you. So my cousin will tell you. So I say as well.”

“Thannor? We cannot stay here,” Himon interjected, the blond man’s body thrumming with nervous energy. The older Ranger’s pale eyes never settled, sweeping in continual arcs in search of threats.

Thannor exhaled softly, preparing to move. Before he could rise, Yahzin’s free hand lifted and tentatively tugged on his tunic. With eyes dodging his, she said, “I will make this right.” It had all the earmarks of a vow. 

“There is no need to—Yahzin!” He snatched nothing but air as she twisted around his arm, evaded Thalon, and boldly stepped onto the street in full sight of the enemy where the Rangers dared not follow. 

Between one breath and the next, she was gone. Thannor bit back a harsh epithet, his pulse throbbing in his forehead. _Eru._ Now, he had two children to fear for. Two to save.

Anuon’s alarmed eyes flew his way, a question written there. 

“She’ll betray us,” Glivin said, making to stand, that blade still in one hand.

Orodon stopped him by latching onto the boy’s arm. “Thannor?”

“No,” Thannor answered both Anuon and Orodon, furious at himself for not anticipating this. “She won’t betray us. Let her go.” He hoped he’d read her true. He shifted his father’s body, relieving pressure on a protesting muscle. With a sigh, “What happened, Orodon?” 

“The Brothers were felled by a small child they attempted to rescue from the city. By my estimates, she couldn’t be more than five years old.”

_Eru._

“Caeldor’s leadership arrived before I could extricate them.” The other Ranger’s full lips twisted. “This rune,” he said, tapping the marking upon his own face, “is now associated with treason.”

“There is more,” Thalon rumbled as Himon finally grew impatient enough to slink past them, taking point once more.

“More?” Anuon asked sharply.

“We’ll return for our kinsmen, Thannor,” Himon murmured as he past him. 

Thannor’s head dipped. Yes, the Rangers would. Thannor trusted his people to never leave another behind. But Thannor would not be departing without his children. 

Firming his grip on his father, Thannor followed Himon. Then he threw a demanding look at Thalon over his shoulder. Echoing Anuon, he said, “More?”

The black-haired Ranger kept close as they made their way southward once again. “Saldís marched into town bold as brass, Hlein and Finnin acting her prisoners.”

Thannor jaw tightened. So. His cousin had fallen back on their earliest plan. 

“Saldís?” Glivin, his dark eyes flying from Ranger to Ranger.

“You know her as Ib-Akhora,” Thannor explained grimly. “She’s one of us.” 

The boy tripped, his dark eyes wide as saucers.

_One of us,_ Thannor repeated silently. The only one of them that could now possibly see his son and friends saved without tremendous loss of life. _And the only other soul Yahzin will trust._

As soon as the others were to safety, Thannor intended to stick very close to his cousin.

OoOoOo

Saldís stood at attention, unarmed and displaying empty palms when the remains of Caeldor’s leadership deigned to arrive along with what looked to be most of its residents. Had Tagan lived, the Arcanist would have been livid at the lack of haste. She supposed for their sakes it was a good thing Tagan no longer drew breath.

Almost lost among the crowd, steps behind the lords and commanders, a cluster of Weapons bore three burdens: The Brothers.

_They live. Thank the dwarves’ Maker._ She wasn’t too late. 

Ar-Nahlis stepped closer with Ar-Aemazia and Ar-Kavish not far behind, and Saldís lost sight of the three young Dunedain. Ib-Tovhal and Ib-Zimir, the commanders of Houses Mordhalor and Fuinur respectively, hovered within hearing range. _Acting on their absent lords’ behalf, no doubt._

“Well, well, Sangahyando,” Ar-Kavish said with a smirk. “It seems you have been conspiring against the Duumvirate. Care to explain?”

Kavish, the youngest of the Six Lords and an Arcanist, possessed a thin, bookish frame combined with lackluster brown hair, hazel eyes, and an enlarged epiglottis that ever bobbed up and down with every syllable the man uttered. 

She schooled the disdain from her face. 

A scoffing sound, a dry cackle. “You heard our sentries’ reports,” Ar-Aemazia drawled. The aged lord stepped around them to Ar-Tagan’s body. Without turning, he continued to address Kavish. “Ib-Akhora could hardly have crept past our guards, murdered Tagan, and retraced her steps with two dwarves in tow.”

Kavish shot a lethal glare at Lord Berúthiel’s back. “She arrives the very day we discover traitors,” he said through clenched teeth, “and you trust her?” 

Aemazia’s rheumy eyes hardened as they darted back to the junior lord. “No one suggested that, either, Herumor,” 

“By all means, continue to dig the ditch beneath your own feet, Lord Kavish,” Nahlis said, her half-masted wolf blue eyes never drifting from Saldís. “Or have you forgotten who now rules the city?”

Kavish’s mouth snapped closed. 

“I will question you later,” Lord Sangahyando said to Saldís in a hard voice. “And if I find you behind our woes, Akhora, I will let Mahris play with you before you face Ar-Aemazia’s displeasure.”

Saldís’s left eyebrow winged upwards as Nahlis gestured for a number of Weapons and Arcanists from House Sangahyando to take possession of her. This, she’d anticipated. Before being dragged away, she calmly reported, “Umbar is empty.”

Nahlis turned back around, an impatient frown upon her face. “I know this, _He_ -Akhora. They are mustering in Pelargir as planned.”

He-Akhora? The woman planned to demote her below a common Weapons-Master? That, she could not permit. It would bar her from Berenor and his friends.

“Even their children? The whores, gamblers, and elderly?” Saldís’s words stopped Nahlis in her tracks. That fast, Saldís had the attention of every adult on the street. “I suppose they destroyed their docks, too.” 

“What is this?” Aemazia asked. The old Arcanist straightened from where he’d been bent over examining Tagan’s shattered pendant. A curt gesture silenced Kavish and Nahlis both. 

Saldís directed her full attention on Tagan’s successor. “My Lord Aemazia,” she said, “my path took me through Umbar. When I arrived, it was empty. No Corsairs remain, and the docks have been destroyed. It looked like something a team of Arcanists could perhaps do.” That seed, she planted happily. 

Aemazia frowned at Ar-Nahlis. “When, Lord Sangahyando, did our liaison last report to you?”

“Ib-Valkthor met a courier I sent on the twelfth of February. He reported all was secure. The Captain of the Havens and his Corsairs were prepared to depart.”

“February.” 

“I assumed he shipped out with the Corsairs for Pelargir.” Nahlis’s words turned stiff.

A sound of annoyance came from the back of Aemazia’s throat. The Arcanist turned to Saldís. “Did you search the city?”

“A short examination only, lord.” Cool. Perfunctory. By Mahal, Saldís detested the need to show respect to these wretches. They were unfit to polish Princess Dis’s boots. “Other than the docks, there was little evidence of what transpired. The storehouses are untouched.”

“Not looted?” Kavish this time, his eyebrows compressing above his nose. 

“No, Lord Herumor.” 

Ar-Aemazia rubbed his chin with one wrinkled hand. “When did you reach Umbar?” 

“The fifteenth of February,” Saldís answered. “The city appeared to have been abandoned in haste. Food was left half eaten on plates swarming with insects, and possessions were left scattered about. I checked for signs of a mass exodus, but I found no indication that the Corsairs left by land.”

“Boats?” Aemazia asked sharply.

“A few sunk in harbor. They appeared burned.”

“But no bodies?”

Saldís offered open palms. “None that I saw.”

Nahlis shared a deeply disturbed look with Aemazia, one that Saldís’s Akhora-self snickered to see. The Dark Lord would demand answers at some point. The Captain of the Haven, too, when the man discovered his home emptied. The two lords were well aware that both their necks were in the noose.

“What occurs here?” Nahlis bit out under her breath. The gray-haired woman scowled at Tagan’s body, then her head tilted in Umbar’s direction. 

Her attention abruptly whipped back to Saldís. “How is it you live, Akhora?”

The story Saldís had concocted—a blending of half-truths and lies—spilled readily from her lips. “Valkthor used our mission to Dale to rid himself of his last impediment to his rise in power.” She smiled without any amusement. “Me. He betrayed our team to the men of Dale by leaving damning papers where they were certain to be found.”

“You have proof?” Kavish again.

“Since he disposed of his felines, no,” Saldís said without heat. “I don’t.” Back to Aemazia. “The men of Dale know the Dark Lord is coming, for all the good it will do them. Their king,” she said, allowing remembered disgust to lace her words, “is weak. His nobles, divided.”

“You escaped them,” Aemazia stated.

“A boon, finally, from my past,” she said lightly. “The king of Dale commanded my death, but the dwarf who’d once adopted me,” here she imbued the words with a wealth of ridicule, “intervened. The fool blathered on about familial duty until Brand consented to hand me over to the dwarves. I was confined to Erebor under lock and key, but eventually, I was able to convince the creatures of my penitence. The dwarves,” she told them, “will pose no obstacle to our Master. Their weakling sentimentality will be their undoing.”

The scornful words sat like rancid meat on her tongue. Aemazia studied her with no expression upon his face. Nahlis’s betrayed nothing, her wolf’s eyes shielded behind her eyelids. Kavish…

“And the dwarf prisoner?” Nahlis asked before Saldís could measure the third lord’s reaction. “Mahris tells me you recaptured one of the three who escaped us.” 

“Yes, my lord. The dwarves evaded our attempts to recapture them by heading east to the Orocarni. When I stumbled across them, they were but a week from reaching Erebor along with a small contingent of Stiffbeards.”

A significant look between the lords. So. Finnin’s ruse held. And, she decided, lent credibility to her tale. 

“You brought _two_ dwarves to us,” Kavish noted, his lips puckered. 

“I chose the two I deemed most useful and slew the rest,” she said flatly. “I’ve seen their skills. We can use them. But forcing nine dwarves across all of Rhovanion is more than one Weapon can handle. Or would want to.”

“You brought them all the way from Erebor,” Aemazia said with heavy doubt.

“From just north of the River Running,” she corrected. “House Sangahyando lost the original three. House Sangahyando now replaces them.” Saldís folded her arms before her chest. 

Houses had certainly done more to restore their “honor”. But if they really thought one person of the race of men could contain even two dwarves for months, these lords had no idea just how obstinate and strong the Khazâd truly were.

The silence that descended next was ripe with speculation. Not, she was pleased to note, with hostility. This gambit had a chance.

The sun beat down. Minutes trickled past. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in Saldís’s belly as she awaited the verdict. 

“Lock her in the Cage. For now,” Aemazia said, abruptly ending the moratorium on speech. “I will question her more thoroughly later.”

The handful of Weapons from House Sangahyando guarding her did not grab her this time. Nay, this time, they respectfully gestured her to precede them eastward along the street to the Cage. 

Her lips curled downward. The single, iron-barred cell was situated right in the center of town where all could see it. ‘Twas both a public shaming and insurance the soul confined therein could not escape. 

Still, a good sign. There were far worse alternatives Aemazia could have chosen.

“He-Akhora?”

Her eyes sought the elderly lord over one shoulder. 

“If I find you lied to me, I’ll drag you to Mordor myself.” A wintry smile. “The orcs will enjoy having a new plaything.”

Insofar as threats went, she thought, that one was exquisitely effective.

OoOoOo

“A distraction?” Finnur asked after Nori’s breathless explanation.

“Aye. Without blowin’ the canyon out o’ existence, if ye don’t mind,” Nori hastened to add. They weren’t quite to that, and Nori aimed to keep it that way.

“I wouldn’t do that. Not with our friends down there,” Finnur said in affront. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Glinor said, voice tight with tension. Nori caught but a glimpse of the Ranger’s deeply worried expression before the lad returned to his watch, keeping an eye out for Númenóreans and their thrice-accursed pets. All the while, Glinor paced, each step short and jerky.

“Not to ruin this fine day with harsh facts, lad,” Nori told the inventor. “But we’re in a bit of a rush.” He stood on tip toes, but from this vantage, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of even the tallest of Caeldor’s buildings. Frustration gnawed at his innards like acid.

Finnur tugged upon his beard with one hand, his forehead creased. 

“Finnur,” Nori and Glinor snapped in unison.

Their inventor scowled. “This plan of yours has to _work._ Don’t pester me.” Then almost immediately, he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got an idea.”

Nori followed the lad as he hurried to retrieve his bright coat from where he must have stashed it earlier behind some rocks. “It needs to be subtle, Finnur,” he warned.

“Subtle won’t clear enough of the valley,” Finnur argued distractedly. His neck craned around, showing Nori gleaming eyes. “We need all eyes on our distraction, or you risk our Rangers being spotted.” A snort told Nori what Finnur thought of that idea. “We don’t want to lose our audience while our friends are dangling on the cliff like bait for all to see.”

The lad had a point. Nori’s gaze flew to Glinor and found the Ranger’s equally disturbed.

Finnur exhaled gustily. “Will you to stop with the fretting? No one will know we’ve been here.” His lips hiked up into a smirk. “We’ll give them someone else to worry about.” 

_Eh?_ Nori chewed that over a bit as Finnur dug through the dozens of pockets within his yellow coat. Out came wire, metal slats, and…a jar. Nori’s scratched his cheek. “Blue dye? What’s that for?”

Finnur mumbled for a few moments, plainly ignoring Nori’s question. Then lifting his head, he said in a bright tone, “So. Ranger Glinor.” 

Nori’s eyes narrowed. If’n he was the Ranger, he’d be backing away from that sweet smile Finnur sported. What was rattling around in that head o’ Finnur’s?

“Yes?” Glinor responded cautiously. _Aye, well, he’s no fool._

Finnur deposited a half dozen of his wee exploding metal birds beside the jar before standing and facing them. “Tell me, Ranger. Done much acting in your time?”

OoOoOo

Glivin had never been happier.

He didn’t care he and his new brothers had to hide from their people. He figured he’d never been in so much danger before, but it didn’t matter. He watched his brothers guard each other’s backs with complete faith, and celebrated that _he_ was now one of _them._

He just wished that they’d listened to him about Yahzin. Time and again, his frown turned to the brother the others called Thannor. Why had the tall, lanky man trusted her? Why had he _adopted_ her? Glivin was convinced the older man was mad, but he dared not say as much to his brothers and possibly earn their displeasure.

Instead, he bit his tongue and waited with them within the old smithy, a derelict building tucked up against the cliffs along Caeldor’s southernmost point. Grimy with dust and rodent feces, it was plain no one had been inside in years. Probably decades. 

They waited in silence. Ten minutes before, Himon had slunk to the base of the cliffs, and almost as if on command, a rock had dropped from above, one with a note wrapped around it. Glivin had caught a glimpse of more brothers up above, so he knew something was afoot. 

Now, the Brothers stuck in Caeldor waited. Glivin, with rising anticipation. 

A loud boom broke the silence, one coming from a fair distance. 

“Finnur,” he heard Orodon murmur to Thalon. 

“Without a doubt,” Thalon responded. 

Another boom, followed by what sounded like shattering stone. Glivin couldn’t contain his curiosity. He dodged around Orodon and ran up to the smithy door, peeking out in the hopes of seeing what was happening. 

His eyes widened. High up on the northern side of the canyon, a blue robed man waved his arms, a pointed hat on his head. From here, Glivin thought he heard the man shouting something in a ringing voice. 

_One of the Blue Wizards,_ he thought with awe. Every Novice heard stories about the two old men, but no Black Númenórean in generations had managed to catch a glimpse of one. 

The boy’s forehead wrinkled. He looked back at his brothers, sure they weren’t as surprised as they should have been. Another glance at the wizard, then back to his brothers.

Had his brothers somehow managed to recruit a _wizard?_

OoOoOo

_“Sevig thû úan!”_ Glinor shouted in Sindarin in as mighty a voice as he could manage. Where, he wondered wildly, was Mithrandir when he was needed? Glinor knew no spells. How could he? So instead, he roared Sindarin insults and attempted to sound as imposing as he could.

Down he hurled another metal bird, unable to fathom just how he’d found himself in this predicament. A gnarled branch served as his “staff”. His clothes and the smock Finnur had provided were damp with blue dye, a dye he felt leaking from the makeshift hat on his head. With each insult he bellowed, Glinor could feel it trickling into his hair and down his nape. 

He only hoped it was confined to his hair. If he left a trail of dye, this deception would be over. He and the two dwarves would have ample time to regret their brash actions. Time with lots of screaming and pain, one would assume.

_“Dôl gîn lost!”_

Below, the bird took out the last of House Fuinir’s altars. A more fitting target, Glinor couldn’t imagine. He dared not target anything close to the nearby Breeders’ Den nor House Sangahyando’s barracks. The dormitories for the adults, however…

_“Pedin i phith in anîron, a nin ú-cheniathog!”_ he thundered. Glinor wound up the last bird and lobbed it with all his strength. _Boom!_ It hit the dormitory wall and blew a sizable hole out of it. Rubble rained down onto the streets below. 

Glinor’s lips curled. This was oddly satisfying. 

His grin wobbled as Caeldor’s streets flooded with Black Númenóreans of all ranks. From this height, it was difficult to be sure, but they appeared shocked. It didn’t take long before fingers pointed in his direction. 

The first arrow whizzed his way, clipping his ear. Glinor ducked. A second arrow thwapped into his “staff”. Definitely time to go. 

While below a huge mob of Númenóreans charged towards the roads out of the canyon—and a handful rushed onto rooftops with crossbows—Glinor sprinted away, the hem of his smock flapping around his ankles. 

He hoped Finnur was ready.

Glinor skidded around a cluster of boulders, and would have whooped if he’d had time. Nori had one of the Company’s _emala_ ready to go, its saddle in place and harness tied to the saddle horn. And perched on that saddle? A bundle of dead weeds and grasses somehow strapped together to form a man-tall silhouette around which the dwarves had draped more blue fabric. (Where had that come from?)

“They’re coming,” Glinor said, wrenching his dripping hat from his head. 

Nori pointed Glinor to a pit the dwarves must have excavated during Glinor’s short absence. “Go,” Nori commanded.

“But…” Glinor protested. The Numenorean’s would notice a hole in the ground.

An impatient Finnur shoved Glinor into motion. 

_He’d better know what he’s doing,_ the Ranger thought, jumping into the four-foot deep pit and hunching down. How the three would fit in the space, he couldn’t imagine. It was a rough four feet long by three feet wide. 

_Madness._ Dwarves, he concluded, were courageous as the mountains were tall. But they were also the most brash people Glinor had ever met. The Ranger wasn’t certain if that was a good thing or not. 

The dwarves delivered swift, hard boots to the emala’s hindquarters, setting the bird to racing across the desert like its tail was on fire. A second later, Glinor was squashed against one corner of the hole with Finnur’s shoulder pushing the air from his lungs. 

“Duck,” the dwarf said.

Duck? What did the dwarf mean, _duck?_

The inventor reached over to tug on wires and ropes Glinor hadn’t even noticed…and a big boulder perched on top of the others rocked from its moorings. Glinor gasped, jerked himself into a small ball as he watched a good six hundred pounds of rock come slamming down on top of their pit. 

Sealing them in. _Trapping_ them in a _hole in the ground._

Was this supposed to happen? Because Glinor was beginning to regret not taking his chances aboard that _emala._

OoOoOo

Lord Berúthiel glared at all and sundry as the other two lords and five commanders shouted orders to their troops. Three “traitors” found bearing a blue mark on their faces, and the same day a Blue Wizard rained down fire from above?

Aemazia recognized a well-laid plot when he saw it. _By Sauron’s Eye._ Umbar made perfect sense in light of this discovery. What else besides a wizard could destroy Umbar’s ancient stone piers?

Aemazia had no idea what the Blue Wizard had done to the Corsairs themselves—or how—but both of the accursed wizards had meddled in affairs in these lands for far too long. Ages, in fact. It was past time to eradicate the two interfering old men once and for all.

_Where is the second?_ Shrewd eyes swept the area. He saw no sign of the second Blue Wizard, but that did not mean he was not present. If he hid, there was another aspect of this plot, one Aemazia had best not underestimate. 

“Have Ib-Zimir and House Fuinir remain to guard the city,” he murmured to the attentive Master-Arcanist waiting at his elbow. “The Hands as well.” 

“It will be as you command,” Ne-Yissin said before stalking off in search of those specified. 

Lord Berúthiel’s attention slid to Ar-Tagan’s body. A worm of true fear slithered down his spine. The aged lord had said nothing aloud, but the Arcanists among them had all sensed an unexpected remnant of dark power lingering around the slain man’s pendant. Sensed and shared uneasy glances, for they all knew whom it was to have shattered Ar-Tagan’s pendant. 

Their overlord was unhappy. Extremely so. 

It did not bode well for any of them, and Aemazia spared a thought to be grateful he was here and not currently in Mordor within the Dark Lords immediate reach. The lord suspected Sauron had discovered the division tearing Caeldor apart, and Tagan’s pendant was a warning to them all. Fix this or suffer his wrath.

With the evidence before him, Aemazia could only conclude the Blue Wizards were to blame for all of it—sowing distrust, turning House against House and Arcanist against Weapon. If the Black Númenóreans wished to continue to hold such an august position in their Master’s service, they’d best get their hands on the masterminds behind this unforeseen assault…and kill them. 

Ib-Zimir arrived along with all of the smallest House’s full complement of warriors, from Master-Weapons to Novices. “My lord,” Zimir said with a very correct bow. 

“The Blue Wizards may try to reclaim their foot soldiers,” Aemazia said shortly. “Your House is to guard the three with your lives. They are not to be lost. Understood?”

A second bow. “House Fuinur will not fail you.”

“You’d best not. Or it will be to Sauron himself that you will give an accounting, Ib-Zimir.” With that, Aemazia strode away. 

Instinct told him eyes watched. _The other Blue Wizard. Which means the first is a distraction,_ he decided. Which begged the question: what was it the Blue Wizards attempted? 

_Find the second wizard, find the answer._ Aemazia began searching for a useful set of eyes.

OoOoOo

Medlinor had bided his time, at turns aghast and impressed with the sight of Glinor dressed in bright blue attire, shouting nonsense as he rained down explosives from above. This plan was either madness or sheer genius. Perhaps equal parts both.

Time would tell. 

If Medlinor hadn’t known better, he’d have believed he looked upon the other Blue Wizard, Alatar. Where, he wanted to know, had those blue robes come from? And the hat? 

By his side, Ragan and Kyri seemed to be enjoying the show, snorting lowly as they uncoiled the ropes they held. They, too, waited as all of Caeldor ran in the opposite direction. The Ranger didn’t see a single Black Númenórean head turn their way. 

The very instant Medlinor believed it safe, he hurriedly lowered his rope, cognizant of the two dwarves doing the same. _Hurry,_ raced through his mind in a never ending chant. Pulling their kinsmen up the cliff’s side in broad daylight was incredibly chancy, and he sweat as he imagined the worst. 

“Be ready to run to the _emala_ if we’re spotted,” he bit out.

Ragan grunted. Kyri nodded, his attention never leaving their undertaking.

A weight added itself to Medlinor’s line, and he quickly retracted it, hand over hand. With each passing second, his nerves clanged. His ears strained for any sound they had been spotted—an impossible task with the furor taking place below, but Medlinor could no more cease from trying than he could bring Barhador back to life.

In less than a minute, he had the young Novice he’d spotted with his kinsmen safely retrieved. “Good job,” Medlinor told the boy, nodding his approval as he once again fed out the rope. _One down._

The boy gasped, unsheathing his small scimitar with uncanny speed upon spotting Medlinor’s two companions.

Ragan winked, arms busy pulling up his own burden. “Ragan, at your service, lad.”

“Kyri,” the sculptor added, sparing the boy a half smile. 

“Dwarves?” The kid’s attention flew to Medlinor. 

“Well, we sure aren’t halflings,” Ragan rumbled with feigned insult. Then with a wink, “We’ve not the hairy feet for it.”

A measure of doubt and caution entered the boy’s face. His dark eyes darted to Medlinor. 

The Ranger grunted as he pulled his cousin over the edge while the dwarves struggled to drag Barhador’s body to safety. Medlinor’s heart clenched with a grief he had no time for. He could not help but embrace his cousin briefly—thankful Himon lived—before turning to the boy. “They are as loyal as they come.” 

“We’ll explain as soon as we are away from here,” Himon added, setting one hand on the boy’s shoulder. To Medlinor, “Our companions?”

“Nori, Glinor, and Finnur are about somewhere,” Medlinor answered him briefly. “The Brothers?”

“Under heavy guard. All of House Fuinir.” The two exchanged significant looks.

_Eru._ Frustration filled him, but the Ranger forced it back. It felt a betrayal to leave their three kinsmen down there, but they had no real chance of freeing them. The Brothers were in Saldís’s hands. _Little good she’ll do caged up like she is._

Medlinor bent his attention to extracting the rest of his companions from Caeldor as fast as he could, eyes never still as he watched for the moment a Black Númenórean would turn this way and see them. 

_Please,_ he begged of the Valar. _Please._ The very air stank with tension.

OoOoOo

It was as Orodon dangled midway up the sheer shelf of rock that disaster struck. Thannor, keeping watch from the Old Smithy’s door frame, spotted a brilliant-plumed bird with large beak alight upon the outstretched frond of a palm tree feet from the cliff. A bird whose attention Thannor quickly realized had homed in upon Orodon.

It could be mere curiosity on the part of the animal, but Thannor could not risk it. It could be an Arcanist, and the longer the bird cocked its head, the more that likelihood became certainty in the Ranger’s mind.

_Valar be merciful._ The Black Company was found, but not—he prayed he was correct—its dwarf members. So long as they were not seen, the Rangers’ foes would not realize the full scope of the actions undertaken against them.

But if they were to preserve the dwarves’ clandestine presence, Thannor had to act quickly.

_“Aiya!,”_ he bellowed up at his friends in Quenya. (Attend!) _“En!”_ (Look over there!) Medlinor’s head lifted. The other man stiffened. _Message received._

Thannor didn’t wait for the bird’s reaction. Heart in throat, he vaulted over debris and junk littering the smithy floor and raced out the other door, daring streets at a full run. The bird could not watch Thannor and the rest of the Company both. By running, Thannor forced the Arcanist behind its eyes to choose a target.

He prayed it was him. Better one captured than the bulk of the Company. 

When his flight carried him into a deserted section of town, one plainly revealing just how many of the enemy had already marched north to Mordor, his steps slowed. Gray-green eyes carefully scanned his surroundings. 

The bird had not pursued him. He swore beneath his breath and dredged one hand through his hair.

_Nothing I can do._ The Arcanist had made his choice. Now Thannor had to do the same.

Thannor started walking, each step clipped, and his mind rushing in dozens of directions. Hiding himself, his first inclination, wouldn’t work. Odds were that the others would not escape. Once captured, Caeldor’s search for traitors or invaders would begin in earnest. Skilled though he was, Thannor believed he’d be found. 

Hiding openly among the Black Númenóreans would doubtless fail now that his son and his companions were unmasked. Thannor knew if it was himself in charge, he’d have every person in the city gathered together, and every face scrutinized in search of strangers among them. 

That left only one option. One fraught with peril, but he could think of no other choice. “So be it,” he whispered.

“Room for more?”

At the unexpected intrusion, Thannor had sword in hand, leaping at the source before the words registered—only to draw up short, his blade freezing bare inches above the other man’s chest. “Anuon,” he said raggedly. Then harder, “What are you doing here?” 

The archer folded his arms. “Berenor is my nephew. I don’t leave without him. Or,” he added softly, “the girl you adopted. Though it is by marriage, Thannor, we are family. I will not leave your side.”

Thannor grabbed the other Ranger close in a short embrace. Then releasing him, he said, “We need a change of clothes.”

“I trust you have a plan?”

Thannor grunted. “An idea.” And Eru grant it worked.

OoOoOo

For one beat of his heart, Medlinor stared at the bird, Thannor’s warning echoing in his ears. _By the Valar._ He burst into action, reeling up Orodon as fast as he could.

A dagger flew past, slamming into and pinning the animal against the tree’s trunk. “There will be more,” Himon growled. Then turning to the dwarves, Himon hissed, “Hide, Master Dwarves. It’s possible you weren’t seen. If the enemy does not yet know of your presence, I’d prefer we keep it that way.”

A long shot, but once Orodon was safely standing on firm ground, Medlinor crouched, making himself a barrier between the landscape below and their dwarf allies. “Go,” he said, shoving them into motion.

Eru. Medlinor rose, heart pounding as the two dwarves charged for their bolt-hole. Then following Orodon’s lead, Medlinor dropped and began to rub out any sign of the Company’s passage. Doubtless, the enemy was en route at that moment, their _emala_ flying across the distance. 

Kyri and Ragan disappeared down into their hole, and Himon tossed Glivin in after them. “No,” Medlinor’s cousin said in a hard voice. Medlinor had to assume the boy was fixing to protext. “We did not risk our lives in this venture to lose you now. You and the others are why we are here. Stay with the dwarves.” 

A flash of silver, one that tightened Medlinor’s throat. Himon never let that coin leave his possession. Not until now. In a lower voice, his cousin said, “Keep that safe for me. We’ll be back for it.”

Medlinor and Orodon scanned the vicinity. In unison, they abandoned their work—no dwarf footprints remained upon the desert sands. They rushed to help Himon and Thalon lower Barhador’s body down to the dwarves’ waiting arms. Then, the Rangers hastily pinned the burlap cover into place. 

“They’ll see this,” Orodon said. 

“Without question,” Himon said shortly. “Bury it in sand. It’ll look like more tracks were erased to obscure our numbers.”

“This had better work,” Medlinor muttered, sharing a brief, poignant look with his cousin. He did not want to see Himon tortured. 

“Steady,” Himon whispered before clapping him on the back. Then rising to his feet, the Ranger urged them into the fastest run of their lives.

Medlinor didn’t know about the others, but he found the awareness of what would happen to them next sufficient motivator to grant his feet wings. _Eru._ For a moment, the sense of unity filled him. Like hundreds of Rangers before him, he’d spent his life holding back the Shadow, defending others. 

And like them, it was how he would meet his end. 

It was then he realized they were not one short—Thannor, he knew, had not begun his climb when they’d been discovered—but two. Try though he did, Medlinor could not recall when he’d last seen Anuon. “Himon,” he said loud enough to be heard over their thundering footfalls. 

His cousin glanced back.

“Anuon?”

The four Rangers exchanged wide-eyed glances, then Himon spat out a virulent epithet. Medlinor spared a thought to hope both of his friends trapped in the Black Númenórean valley remained safe.

A cluster of low-lying, thorny bushes came into view hundreds of yards away. Reaching above the spindly branches, a handful of long bird necks appeared. The Company’s _emala._

If they could just reach them. 

The squawk of more of the beasts sounded from another direction. _Behind_ them. 

Medlinor kept running.

OoOoOo

Nori and Finnur exchanged brief glances in utter darkness as muffled noises told their tale. Footsteps, a lot of them, rushed by. A few came closer.

Nori fiddled with his favorite knife. Like as not, the enemy was searching to make sure none hid behind the rocks, but he held his breath when they stood just outside the hole. If Finnur’s wires had not buried themselves in the ground with the boulder’s move as Finnur had planned…

All three members from the Black Company stared upward, weapons palmed. 

One thing was for certain, however this day unfolded, the Company’s current tactics were no longer usable. The Black Númenóreans knew their secret valley had been discovered, and like as not, they’d be actively hunting for the enemies who’d found them.

That, Nori thought, was going to pose a mite of a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Glinor's performance, I relied on Arwen-Undomiel dot com for some Sindarin curses. (They sound so much more impressive in Sindarin lol)
> 
> Translations:  
> “Sevig thû úan!” - You smell like a monster!  
> “Dôl gîn lost!” - Your head is empty!  
> “Pedin i phith in anîron, a nin ú-cheniathog!” - I can say what I want, and you can’t understand me!


	42. Discoveries

_**13 March TA 3019  
Caeldor, Tovennen** _

Seated upon the stone floor of the raised cage, one leg tucked beneath her, the other bent with arm draped across it, Saldís watched the sun return. The long night had passed, and the screams of pain had faded. Masculine screams. Her friends’ screams.

_Mahal._ Her head settled back against the bars of her cell, her face wiped clean as if bored. 

Inside, her heart wept. She’d watched as Orodon, Medlinor, Himon, and Thalon were dragged past, each bound with ropes and pulled limply behind a pair of _emala._ Their blood had left a crimson trail upon the pavement, a red smear that led to the Seat and up its stairs. Thalon alone had remained conscious, and Saldís knew from experience it had been no blessing. 

Whether any remained among the living now, so many hours later, she didn’t know. But oh, how she feared. 

Akhora had capitalized upon the proof of the Black Company’s failure, whispering silkily to her all night. Pressing her case. Playing upon Saldís’s grief.

All in vain. She snorted weakly. Truly, she was mad, and the madness must be growing, for the rift between the sides of herself widened ever more. Akhora no longer had any idea what motivated Saldís, or she would have kept her yap shut. The syrupy enticements had hardened Saldís’s resolve. 

Aye, she’d go down with these Rangers, proud to have stood and fought for the right side. For once in her life, she was doing something good. 

A flicker of movement teased the corner of one eye, but she didn’t bother to investigate. Since dusk, all of Caeldor—from the youngest Novice to the oldest of Weapons—had prowled the streets, searching the city with quiet intensity. No building was overlooked, no niche or corner. If any of her friends remained within the valley in hiding, he would be found. 

It was inevitable. The Company’s plans had all hinged upon the Black Númenóreans remaining ignorant to the presence of outsiders. Even without the “Blue Wizard”’s appearance, that had ended with Berenor, Calenor, and Erynor’s capture.

By Mahal, she hoped the Ranger who’d played the Blue Wizard had escaped. He’d not been dragged in like his kinsmen, so she held out hope. Too, she’d seen no sign of Barhador, Thannor, Anuon, Glinor, or her dwarves. Aye, it was possible they’d been slain resisting capture, but Saldís stubbornly clung to the belief that all was not lost.

_It isn’t over until we are in the grave._ Hope remained, and she refused to relinquish her white-knuckled hold on it.

But by her soul, she’d never been so thankful Dori, Bofur, and Bifur were missing. They, at least, remained safe. 

Somewhere.

OoOoOo

_  
**Pelargir**  
_

A cheerful morning sun hovered low on the horizon, its bright rays at odds with the blanket of fear choking the streets of Pelargir. Eerie sounds had haunted the lot of them—pirate and prisoner—for the better part of the night, and it showed no signs of abating. Nay, if anything, that odd ruckus crept ever nearer, humming discordantly of terrified screams, clashing battle, and a hair-raising, windy moan. 

Dori was not the only one who’d not gotten a wink of sleep. Of that, he was confident.

The unnerving noise had sent every Corsair in the city to Pelargir’s walls, even those who had started the night guarding their prisoners. Dori didn’t blame the men. The compulsion to look, to see and assure oneself the noise wasn’t nearly so fearful as the imagination claimed had badgered him, too. Instead, he’d resisted and set about unshackling his fellow prisoners using two bits of mangled wire he’d filched from the debris he’d dug through the day before. 

He was not the brother of an _ex_ -thief for naught, he smirked as the last fetter had fallen away.

The prisoners, freed of their restraints, stole through abandoned streets to the city’s stables. The sole Corsair guarding the building slumped to the ground after Dori delivered a hard rap to his skull, and thereafter, the Gondorians and Dol Amrothians hurried inside. Nervous chatter broke out, whispers for the most part. 

Despite the scent of pungent hay and stables that hadn’t been mucked out in too long, there was comfort to be found in being out from the open. Dori, too, felt a measure of tension drain from his shoulders. 

Not that Dori believed these stone and wood walls would avail them much against an army of undead men of questionable character. He flexed his fingers, wishing for a real weapon, but all fate had provided were his fists and the chains he had freed himself from. 

“Master Dori?”

At the wee small voice and an accompanying tug upon his pant leg, Dori glanced down to find a young, brown haired boy at his hip. “You should stay inside, lad,” he admonished softly.

“Will the ghosts kill us, too?”

Dori’s gaze lifted to meet Luthil’s, finding the black-haired man as uncertain how to answer as himself. Though the adults had aimed to keep the truth of the matter from the young ones, by midnight the children had heard the full of it from the Corsairs as they babbled among themselves.

Dori hunched down, hands on his knees. “Well, now. I’ll answer you plainly, laddie. I don’t know.” Then leaning closer and placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “But I can say this. If anyone wants to harm you and your friends, they’ll have to get past this dwarf before you. And that will be a mite more difficult than you’d think. I may be old, but I’ve strength left in these arms.”

At that, a brief smile flashed. “I saw you carry _huge_ rocks.”

Dori chortled. “That I did, lad. That I did.”

“Can I be a dwarf when I grow up?” 

Dori’s chest shook with silent laughter, and he patted the boy on the head. Before he could answer, however, a furor broke out towards Pelargir’s western gates. Another Dol Amrothian who’d gone scouting, Dathan, appeared down the street, his feet fair blurring with their haste as he raced towards them. Dori needed no words. The ghost army led by the Dunedain Chieftain had arrived.

OoOoOo

Every speck of battle-lust and anticipation drained from Gimli, son of Gloin, and his steps slowed their headlong rush through Pelargir’s arched stone gates the instant he spied the objects pinned overhead. Members of the Gray Company and troops rallied among the locals from the Fellowship’s long march sprinted past him to either side, but Gimli didn’t budge.

His hands tightened about his battle ax. With temper pricked to a fine fury, he bobbed on his feet, eyes locked on the hat he knew belonged to Bofur and the spear belonging to Bifur. He’d no hope of reaching them, and he refused to leave them. 

Now where was that pointy-eared… There. “Legolas!” he hollered. 

The blond elf’s head whipped his way. His friend’s brow creased with a question, then he turned away to dispatch the pirate foolish enough to believe the elf prince was so easily distracted. The pirate fell, and Legolas loped back to where Gimli now stood alone beneath the stone archway. 

“Gimli, we are falling behind,” Legolas said, his smooth face creased in confusion.

The dwarf didn’t waste time with banter. He pointed upwards with one finger. “I’ve more worries than that. Can you retrieve those items for me?”

Legolas’s confusion increased if the lines upon his brow were any indication. 

“You remember the tale Aragorn’s kinsmen recounted? Well, that spear and that hat belong to two dwarves who were a part of the group headed south.”

“I’ll get them.”

His friend did just that, using his elvish agility to scale the wall as if it was a tree. Within half a minute, the elf was pressing the items into Gimli’s waiting hands. 

Gimli grunted, twisting the spear around to eye it. _Aye, it’s Bifur’s sure enough._ Then he scrutinized the hat, certain before he’d begun of his conclusion.

A bit of parchment drifted down from the hat’s cavity, and Legolas snatched it up.

“What’s that?” Gimli’s worry pounded like drums with each heartbeat. The expression growing upon Legolas’s face in no ways assuaged it.

“It’s a note addressed to Akhora,” Legolas said.

“Akhora!” Gimli pressed closer, seeking to clap eyes on the text himself. “That’s Bifur’s daughter, Saldís.”

“It’s from someone named Valkthor. He’s taken the dwarves to Mordor.”

“Mordor?” Gimli managed, his voice hollowed of strength.

The elf’s hand came to his shoulder. Concerned eyes met his. “He tells her that if she has any care for them, she should turn herself in at Minas Morgul.”

“The Dead City.” For a second, the stunning news left the dwarf floundering. Then, he grabbed the letter from Legolas’ unresisting hands. His lips moved as he read the damnable words for himself. 

He crumpled the parchment in one fist. 

“We must report to Aragorn,” was Legolas’s terse response.

Slowly, anger replaced Gimli’s alarm. Those cowardly, feline-loving ruffians! When Gimli got his hands on them, they’d rue the day they crossed Durin’s folk.

OoOoOo

_  
**Caeldor, Tovennen**  
_

Yahzin followed Ne-Vandorir into the Slaves’ Den, scimitar clutched tightly and spine straight. At Vandorir’s gesture, she and her group of Novices peeled off, searching down the passage to the left while others took the central and right hallways. 

_Where are you?_ She’d heard about the four Dunedain dragged into the city. They all had upon returning home without the prize they’d been after. The “Blue Wizard” had been nothing more than a dummy of sticks and weeds. A decoy, and Lord Aemazia had been furious to learn of it. 

Still, the magics they’d all beheld had him convinced at least one Blue Wizard was near, playing with them. 

Yahzin didn’t care. She wanted to know if Thannor was among those captured or if he had managed to escape Aemazia’s grasp. 

_I don’t know what to do._ Akhora was confined to the Cage, on display for all to see. A number of the Rangers were captured, at least one was dead ( _my fault,_ she whispered), and she had no way to reach any that remained free. 

And some _were_ free, she knew. If not, Glivin would have been found, too. 

Yahzin just didn’t know what to…

She inhaled sharply. Her eyes widened. Among the dull-eyed slaves sat two men she recognized: Thannor and Anuon. 

“Hey,” fourteen year old Weapons-Novice Ciryan said. The black-haired boy with silver-gray eyes frowned at the two Rangers. “I don’t remember seeing them before.”

Yazmin acted on instinct. Forcing a dismissive snort, “Memorized all the slaves’ faces, have you?”

His frown transfered to her. “I pay attention.”

Her mocking laughter rained down. “Not so well as you seem to believe. I’ve seen these two serving House Mordhalor.” She shook her head. “If you go around detecting enemies where there are none—among _slaves_ no less—you’re next than useless to us. You are wasting time.”

She strode past the Rangers as if indifferent, hoping her ridicule would lead the others to dismiss the matter. With each step, her straining ears prayed to hear the other Novices following, leaving the Rangers unmolested. 

After a pause, it happened. The search passed the Rangers by, and Yahzin could have melted in relief.

OoOoOo

_  
**Pelargir**  
_

Gimli and Legolas jogged down street after street, evidence of their army’s passage leading them onward. Not a Corsair had escaped, though from the position of their bodies, a fair few had tried. Gimli snickered, not surprised, really. They were pirates, and pirates were cowards.

The trail of destruction carried them deeper into the city until they reached an open courtyard where Aragorn was nodding at something Halbarad was saying. By his side, pulling on his beard was…

“Dori! By Durin’s beard!” Gimli flew to his kinsman, and grabbed his upper arms. The two knocked foreheads together affectionately. As soon as he drew back, Gimli demanded, “What is the meaning of this?” and displayed the hat and spear. 

“Gimli?” Aragorn and Halbarad’s attention turned to them.

“We found a letter, Aragorn,” Legolas said. Gimli held out the crumpled wad of parchment to his friend. Legolas continued, “Along with the possessions of two dwarves who were a part of the mission south.”

With brows high, Aragorn pressed out the creases, his face turning grave as he read it.

“It’s a trap,” Dori said, rubbing his forehead. “And thank Mahal our Saldís has no idea Valkthor has Bofur and Bifur, or she’d run right into it.”

“What happened, Master Dwarf? Has the mission to Caeldor failed?” Halbarad stepped closer, the corners of his lips pinched. 

Dori shook his head and heaved a sigh. “I’ve a bit to tell you, and none of it’s promising.”


	43. Mordor or Bust

_**Caeldor, Tovennen** _

When Ar-Aemazia summoned her at last, Saldís believed herself ready. She did not know Lord Berúthiel so well as Ar-Tagan and Nahlis and others of her House, but his reputation was that of a cunning man—a reputation substantiated by his advanced years. Few among the Black Númenóreans grew old. That Aemazia had was proof the man was neither hasty nor lacking in intellect. 

Aye, she thought herself ready. And if Lord Berúthiel had been more of Tagan’s ilk, she would have been correct. But standing before the old Arcanist, his decree ringing in her ears, she regretted Tagan’s death. Tagan, she had anticipated, knowing he would question her on an altar and then decide either to return her to duty or summarily execute her. It could have gone either way, but that would have been the end of it. 

Lord Berúthiel, she’d just discovered, was much, _much_ more astute than his slain predecessor. Much. 

“Mordor, my lord?” she asked, her posture perfectly correct and her tone professional.

“I had not heard, Akhora, that your hearing was deficient,” he said coolly. 

_Mordor._ She swallowed heavily. She could not go to Mordor! It would separate her from the Novices, her Company, her _reason_ for returning.

_Nori won’t like this._ An understatement if there ever was one. She’d be lucky if Nori didn’t figure out a way to get his hands on her, throw her over his shoulder, and drag her all the way back to Ered Luin. _And I’d let him._

Mordor? Aye, the Black Company would have to deal with the Black Númenóreans there, but she’d not expected to be going there alone! What was she supposed to do? Find a way to douse their food, then spend a gruesome night slitting every throat she could before they awoke?

_That won't work,_ Akhora snapped with disdain. 

Aemazia’s frown deepened, and Saldís cleared her throat. “No, Lord Beruthiel. My ability to hear is undamaged.” 

“I give you the opportunity to prove yourself,” Aemazia said. 

Aye, by being the bearer of bad news, taking word of all Aemazia suspected occurred in Caeldor, thereby saving his own skin should the message be taken amiss. Standing before the Eye and telling him about traitors, interfering Blue Wizards, and Tagan’s demise sounded like a good way to exit this life to her.

Chills pebbled her flesh. _He’ll know._ ‘Twas said Sauron had the ability to penetrate the mind itself, peering inside and twisting one’s fears into a weapon to be used against him. Fear said he’d know her as a traitor the moment his Eye touched her.

She should have seen this coming. With The Brothers’ capture, it had become inevitable that Caeldor would learn outsiders meddled in their affairs. The addition of the Blue Wizard stunt only nailed the lid shut on that particular coffin. 

Tagan had hidden the upheaval to save his skin, something she’d counted upon. Aemazia must have seen the pendant, must have realized hiding the truth was in all probability no longer possible. And into this mess returned “Akhora”, just in time to be Aemazia’s scapegoat. 

“You will report to our lord and advise him of all I have apprised you.”

“Yes, my lord,” she managed between numb lips, unable to prevent the blood from draining from her face. Her reaction betrayed nothing of importance. Only a fool would not blanch at such an assignment.

“Good.” Lord Beruthiel said brusquely. “You will take one of our mystery men with you. Should I fail to uncover their origins…” And did that sound unlikely. “…our Master will succeed.”

“Of course.” Nausea twisted her gut. She didn’t doubt Sauron’s ability to force the truth from anyone. 

A bead of perspiration trickled down her temple. Sauron _hated_ the Dunedain. What he’d do to them… She didn’t want to think of it. 

“I cannot afford to send an escort of seasoned fighters with you,” he continued as if utterly blind to her dismay. That, she didn’t believe. He knew, all right. The spark of cruel amusement shouted it. 

“I can handle one prisoner,” she responded, the words emerging on their own. It was on its heels that she realized she at least would be able to see one of the Rangers freed. 

“Of course you could.” An unpleasant smile. “If you chose.”

There it was. _I don’t trust you,_ he all but proclaimed. 

“I mean to ensure the prisoner _reaches_ Mordor, He-Akhora. And,” he tacked on in an altogether different voice, “ensure this quiet uprising corrupting our Novices does not infect the entire crop.”

Crop? He equated hundreds of children’s lives to naught but a field of barley?

“You will take Novices from each House to act as your escorts. Train them into a useful tool, a fighting unit, and you may find our lord lenient. Show me what you are capable of, Akhora, and I will see you in Guitan’s place. Drive the division from them. Mold them into a cohesive whole.”

If she’d been in Thorin’s Hall, she would have touched her tongue to her lip, stunned by his request. Instead, she nodded slowly, mind racing. Berúthiel’s cats, he was giving her Novices. Why? Why when he didn’t trust her?

_He isn’t certain._ If he could use her, he would. If not, he’d dispose of her like the day’s rubbish. 

Hope surged. Perhaps not all was—

“I will send Ne-Mahris and Ne-Hilliz with you as well.”

The hope flaked away. _Valar in a bucket!_ Truly? 

“I shall assemble the Novices in one hour. Collect what gear you believe you will need and make your plans.” A sour look. “What supplies you can find.”

She buried her satisfaction deep lest he detect it. Aye, the Rangers had done a good number on Caeldor’s weapons supplies. Confined to the Cage or not, she'd heard the whispers buzzing through the city with the news…as well as stories of the tantrum Ar-Kavish had thrown when the loss was discovered. 

“By your will,” Saldís intoned, hands crossing her chest as she bowed. Her mind galloped in all direction as she strode down the marble room to the exit, hardly noticing the handful of guards positioned along its length for Aemazia’s protection. 

_Mahal._ One hour. _One hour_ to plan how she was going to not only train a passel of Novices to work together (she had some ideas there), win their loyalty so that when her true allegiance came to light they wouldn’t kill her, and do it all under Marhis’s crazed and Hilliz’s suspicious eyes. 

_Don’t forget possible felines,_ Akhora pointed out acidly. _You should have listened to me! We could have saved ourselves! Instead, we are traipsing off as child minders…_

Saldís stepped out into the hot sunlight and pinched the top of her nose, ignoring Akhora’s latest tirade. The trip would take ten days by emala. Eight or nine if the group rushed. That was it. 

Then another worry. How in Durin’s name was she supposed to convince Nori and Finnin to remain here? Perhaps if she hid what was transpiring from them? 

_Nori always does say it is better to ask forgiveness than seek permission._ A weak argument, aye, but it was all she had. After displaying the dwarves’ skill at forging weapons, there was scant chance she could take one to Mordor with her. Especially with the Rangers having all but emptied Caeldor’s stores.

_Which means Finnin and Hlein stay._ Her dwarf, Saldís thought, was not going to be happy. 

She rotated her shoulders, working strain from cramped muscles. Then with a hard face, she padded down the Seat’s steps. First item on her list: arming herself.

OoOoOo

Ar-Aemazia’s speculative gaze followed Akhora from the room and then watched her through a sparrow’s eyes on the Seat’s portico. To his jaundiced eye, she appeared resolved but displeased with her assignment.

He’d expected nothing less. She was not one of his commanders, but Aemazia had kept watch on her progress over the years. It was not every Weapon to return to rank after displeasing the Duumvirate. 

His fingers drummed upon the surface of his Eye pendant. Akhora had once inspired a measure of devotion from those serving under. Not for any sentimentality, for she had none that he’d ever witnessed. 

No, Akhora simply didn’t care for games, while Valkthor supped on them. It was the only reason Aemazia gave her spectacular story a moment’s consideration. 

It did not mean he trusted her, but to fix what the Duumvirate had in their shortsightedness broken, he planned to avail himself of her reputation. The division among his people had grown too deep. The evidence was all around him. If the Weapon was as loyal as she seemed, he would use her to change relations among the Houses. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t survive her trek north. 

_Or if she does, she will wish she had not._

It was time his people put aside their petty power struggles. What had served them well during the long centuries of waiting, improving their bloodlines by ensuring only the best survived, would destroy them now. He’d seen that truth when questioning the unknown men during the night. No matter what was promised or how he made them scream and shake, none spoke. Not to avoid pain to himself, and not to avoid pain to his fellow. 

They possessed a source of strength unknown to Aemazia’s people, and that he would not tolerate. The Arcanist would instill it in his own people if he could. 

Starting with the Novices _if_ the games Tagan had permitted the restless troops here to play upon the youth had not already destroyed this batch.

OoOoOo

After arming herself from Caeldor’s much-depleted weapons stores (and smirking privately all the while), Saldís directed her steps to the provisions storehouse to assess what might be available for herself and her…team.

She exhaled slowly. How was she to win over Novices in ten days time? If ‘twas the youngsters, she stood some chance, but the teens? 

Another concern: which of the Dunedain would be going with her, potentially into Mordor itself? She wished she could believe it would be Medlinor or Himon, but given their woeful condition upon arrival, like as not it would be one of The Brothers, and that horrified her. None of them should carry the burden of what they were likely to see beyond the Dead City’s cursed gates. 

When she reached the sandstone facade of the storehouse, she scaled the squat, wide steps two at a time and and entered, swinging the double wooden doors open with a quick shove. Inside, all was cool and dim, the difference starkly felt by skin and lungs. Dozens upon dozens of open wooden shelves formed a grid through the behemoth space, many filled with jars of preserves (peppers and olives primarily) and wild honey, sacks groaning at the seams with seeds, nuts, and tubers, wheels of cheese, and bulging skins of fermented beverages. Though the storehouse was much depleted from the last time she’d darkened its doors, there remained a bounty here sufficient to feed the residents of Thorin’s Hall well for a month or more.

Instead of swinging smoothly shut in her wake, her ears detected the doors open once more. ‘Twas hardly surprising. Saldís had not been alone since departing from the Seat. Aemazia, she figured, would keep a close eye on her, and in his place, she knew she’d do the same.

“May I be of assistance, mistress?”

_Thannor._ Feverish prickles raced up and down her spine. How had he…? No time. Though the storehouse appeared empty, she would not chance speaking openly. She’d share what she could in a roundabout fashion. 

“I need provisions. Fetch me two sacks of lentils, one of jerky, three of cornmeal, and a pouch of dried cherries. Hurry. I have no time to waste.” 

Thannor, the short glimpse she had of him before he disappeared down one aisle, appeared a totally different man. His shoulders were hunched, his head low, and he limped with each step. _Playing upon our prejudices to remain of little note._ Her estimation of her cousin climbed higher, and it hadn’t been low to begin with. 

Saldís marched off in another direction, the back of her mind ticking down the minutes like Bifur’s mantel clock. She claimed a sizable wheel of peppered cheese, a skin of kvass, and three unused leather water pouches she determined to fill before departing the valley. 

Returning to the foyer, she accepted the items requested from Thannor, juggling them between her hands.

“Shall I carry those for you, mistress?” Thannor asked, his gray-green eyes staring at their feet.

“No,” she said, thanking Eru for the opening he’d provided. Instinct said he’d done so deliberately. “Remain here. A number of Novices will need to be provisioned before we head out. You will assist them.” Then as if forgetting her audience, she muttered, “Their first Test will be if they can suitably outfit themselves for a ten day ride to Mordor. Should they manage that, perhaps I’ll trust them to help guard our prisoner.”

Shaking herself, she hurried off.

OoOoOo

_By the Valar._

Mordor. The word rang in Thannor’s ears. His cousin was being sent to Mordor? How under Eru’s great sky had this come to pass? He dragged one hand down his face. 

_And a prisoner._ He knew how this would play out. If Ar-Aemazia was sending a prisoner to Mordor, to Sauron, it would be one of The Brothers, and his heart ached to know it. _Berenor._ He did not want his son near that accursed place, but he could not wish it on Erynor or Calenor, either. _Which one is it?_

A glance around, and he abandoned his post. Saldís had done what she could to alert him to this development. Now, Thannor had to try and aid her as best he could. The question was how. 

_Nori, where are you?_ He hoped the ex-thief had a few tricks up his sleeve, because Thannor couldn’t see his way through this mess.

OoOoOo

_  
**Dol Hamoth, Tovennen**  
_

Nori leaned back against the crumbling hall’s wall as the remnant of the Company reacted to their news. The day before had been a right mess, and that was the truth. Instead of doing his princess proud, Nori deemed he’d worsened their plight by spades, and he chafed with the knowledge. 

_We could use your fussy self about now, Dori. Where in Mahal’s name are you?_ His older brother had never failed to clean up his brothers’ messes. Something told Nori this time would be different.

Goira stood along the inner wall, Kai (as had become the norm) right by her side. Ragan, Finnur, and Kyri sat with their newest member, Glivin, around the back corner nearest the door. A surprise, the lad was, and one much needed. He gave them hope, he did, where the other youngsters were concerned.

‘Twas encouraging as well that after spending a long night in a hole with Ragan, Kyri, and Barhador’s body, the lad seemed to have developed a starry-eyed admiration for Ragan. There was a story there, Nori thought. Mayhap he’d one day hear it.

Glivin was well and truly with them now, even if’n he hadn’t known exactly what he was getting into when he’d attached himself to Orodon’s side. If anything, the boy seemed relieved to discover his "brothers" were Dunedain and not Black Númenóreans at all. Much of the reserve that had lingered in his eyes had vanished upon learning that gem. 

“The Blue Wizard?” Goira asked, her eyebrows low.

“It was a good plan,” Finnur said bristling. 'twas all bluster, Nori knew, for the lad's eyes were haunted. Aye, Finnur feared his plan had done more harm than good, no matter how the inventor tried to ignore the possibility. 

“It was a wretched plan,” their healer countered. “Now those warg’s arses believe a very powerful enemy is on their doorstep. Their security is bound to tighten. Not a desirable outcome, Finnur.” With arms folded over her bosom, the maid stomped back and forth, pacing off her ire. 

Kai, Nori noted with a smirk, was quick to murmur something into the lass’s ear whilst his hand pressed to the small of her back. Whatever his words, their effect was instant. The maid relaxed into her love’s side, one palm to his chest. 

Nori caught Glivin studying the two, a peculiar look upon his face. Knowing what he did of the child’s upbringing from Saldís’ example, Nori figured the boy was likely stunned at how the Black Company conducted itself, how its members treated one another. 

“My apologies, Finnur,” Goira sighed. 

“Nay, you’re right,” the inventor said, head hanging lower and arms draped across his bent knees. Sitting there, Finnur was the picture of dejection. “Instead of protecting my brother, I locked the door behind him and threw away the thrice-accursed key.”

“You had help, there, lad,” Nori said, his own tone a mite more despondent than he liked. Scratching his jowl, Nori thought, _Mahal, Thorin. What would you do if you were here?_

Foolish question. Thorin would heft Orcrist, don that kingly look the Durins wore so well, and lead the charge in Caeldor. His dead king’s words returned to him hollowly: "If this is to end in fire, let us all burn together!”

Sure as rain, Thorin wouldn’t give up. Durins never did. 

Turning at the waist and leaning to one side, Nori ducked his head out the door until he could see Glinor perched on Dol Hammoth’s low wall, his attention outward. “Any sign?” Nori asked.

Glinor shook his blue-streaked head of hair. “We remain undiscovered.”

Nori grunted. One piece of good news, though he didn’t doubt but that the Black Númenóreans would begin searching the countryside soon. 

_Too soon._

Leaving Glinor to keep watch, he again attended to the discussion occurring indoors, his mind gnawing on that one fact. Time was no longer on their side. The longer they waited, the greater the chance of disaster. 

_I’m sorry, Dís,_ he thought towards his liege lady. _I’m not thinking we have time to wait for your reinforcements._

The Black Company must act, and they must act quickly.

OoOoOo

_  
**Pelargir**  
_

Dori stole through Pelargir’s streets like a thief, one eye keeping track of the sun’s progress overhead and a horse’s reins tight in his fist. He’d never felt more closely related to Nori in his life.

Oh, he’d heard the words of Chieftain Aragorn, Halbarad, Gimli, and all the others. He should stay with them, they said. Minis Tirith needed aid, and should the city of men fall, a crucial ally would be no more. A major impediment to Mordor marching north, eradicated. 

Aye, and he’d heard their words about hying off alone after Bifur and Bofur, that one dwarf could not hope to overcome their captors. Dori understood, and he even accepted that Aragorn could not spare men to go after two souls when countless thousands in Minas Tirith were dependent upon victory there. That Aragorn had released the ghost army from Dunharrow, claiming their oath fulfilled, had been the honorable thing to do after they’d annihilated the Corsair forces, but it meant Aragorn needed every able-bodied man he had. The Gray Company and the accumulated men of Lebenan were scarcely sufficient for what they might face.

Aye, Dori understood all of that. 

He just didn’t agree with it. Dori belonged with Bofur and Bifur, and by Mahal, he’d do all he could to catch up with them. Not solely for himself, although aye, they were like family to him, but for his niece too. Dori could not imagine how Saldís would handle knowing her past had stolen her adâd’s life. If there was any way to spare her that fate, her uncle Dori would find it. 

Gimli would be wroth. Like as not, that was an understatement of Nori proportions, but Dori had eyes. Gimli belonged with Aragorn and Legolas. Tight as brothers, the three were, and Dori refused to put Gimli in the position of having to choose one loyalty over another. 

Nay, ‘twas better this way.

After slinking past Pelargir’s abandoned eastern gates, he mounted the smallest horse he’d been able to find in Pelargir’s stables. With one hand, he patted the scimitar he’d ripped from the Captain of the Haven’s cold hand. That, he intended to see returned to his niece. 

A solid kick, and the black horse galloped eastward.

OoOoOo

_  
**Caeldor, Tovennen**  
_

Hidden behind a low wall, Thannor furtively scratched out a message upon a bit of cloth he’d filched from the dirty laundry pile. Instead of quill and ink, he used nothing more than a bit of white rock with high chalk content. The words would not last, but perhaps that was for the best. It would be disastrous should any of the enemy read it.

This was a risk, but then, he thought grimly, so was everything the Black Company attempted. Already, this mission had claimed his father’s life. Thannor knew the Company would be fortunate if more of them did not join Barhador in Mandos’ Halls before all was done. 

Shoving the crude missive into his waistband—Eru grant it pass for a cleaning rag—he next shuffled his way to the nearest pool of water, one thick with slaves. Clay jars were stacked in neat piles upon a knee-high stone wall bordering its northern edge, and dozens of slaves hauled water in steady streams to and from the location.

None spoke. Not to whisper gossip as servants throughout Arda surely would. Not to encourage one another. 

Thannor filled a pot, and refusing to allow fear to touch him, hurried to the Slaves’ Den. 

Outside the heavy doors of the dwarves’ cell stood six armed and alert Black Númenóreans, all but one wearing two earrings in their ears. The sole exception, a Weapon, wore his blond hair cropped short. His scimitar was unsheathed and held steadily in his left hand, and his pale green eyes speared Thannor the instant the Ranger shuffled into view.

“This area is off-limits, slave,” the Weapon growled. Thannor did not lift his eyes, but by the shadows on the floor, he knew when the man stalked closer, his right hand lifted in preparation of a backhanded slap.

“Ib-b-b,” Thannor stuttered, hunching in upon himself. “I-Ib Ak-k-k-Akhora command-ded w-water b-b-be b-brought t-to the d-dwarves.” If any asked his cousin, Thannor trusted she would back him up. 

_“Ib_ -Akhora?” the Weapon questioned flatly.

“Oh, leave him be,” a woman countered. “He’s nothing but a slave.”

The blond man grumbled something incomprehensible and gestured. The wooden door was opened. 

Thannor quivered and lifted the clay pot as if too frightened to move. 

One boot kicked him in the backside. “Well, get to it, slave. We’re not doing your work for you.”

So it was that Thannor limped into the cell, accidentally spilled a bit of water upon the floor in the process (which necessitating mopping the mess up with the corner of the cloth, which he then hid among the straw on the floor) and offered two familiar dwarves something to drink.

A minute later, he limped out the way he’d come.

OoOoOo

Finnin waited only until the thick door thumped closed behind Thannor’s back before bursting into motion. The swatch of fabric his friend had left behind was no coincidence. Thannor had come for a reason, and Finnin’s lips flattened as his mind raced with fearful scenarios.

At first, his eyes could not believe what they read. A sound of protest must have escaped him, for Hlein’s hand pressed to his shoulder, and the older dwarf knelt at his back, reading the crude message for himself. 

Finnin’s Saldís. In Mordor? Without his ax to guard her? Without himself or Nori or her adâd to support her in warding off Akhora?

Nay. Nay, he’d not have it. 

“We must inform Nori,” Hlein murmured in Khuzdul. 

Finnin’s head whipped around. What the other dwarf read from his expression, he could not imagine, but Hlein’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

“This may not be all bad,” Hlein added. Before Finnin could argue, the lord lifted one finger. “Saldís leaves…with _Novices,_ lad. The very ones we meant to protect.”

_Mahal._ Finnin’s mind latched onto that. If a large enough group of Novices went with his Saldís, there were fewer in Caeldor that the Black Company must protect. If the Breeder’s Den and the nursery were emptied… If they could gather the remaining Novices in one place…

Aye, Hlein had the right of it. They two must get to Nori. The most opportune time to strike Caeldor might be at hand.

_And when that’s finished, I’ll be coming for you, Bâhzundushuh._

OoOoOo

Saldís prepared her _emala,_ stowing her food and two filled water pouches in saddlebags that draped beneath the bird’s wings. The last pouch, she looped over the saddle horn along with a sand-hued face scarf and gloves.

The street behind the rookery began to fill with Novices making their way to the Seat. Her time was up. 

The weight of Hilliz’s gaze was tangible on her back when she left him with their mounts and joined the young throng. She grasped the hilt of her scimitar, absently wishing it was Ugmil’adad’s—the gift had meant so much to her, and now it likely graced some fool Gondorian’s hand. 

Her eyes traveled among the Novices as she scaled the Seat stairs to Ar-Aemazia’s side. “My lord,” she greeted respectfully. 

“Akhora.” Coffee brown eyes flicked her way. “Select your Novices,” he said. “As many as you think you can handle.”

A challenge. One backed up by the glint in his eye. _Mahal._ Truly? ‘Twas an opportunity she’d not imagined. To have so many in her hands? 

_It’s also a death sentence,_ Akhora snarled. _Or do you forget what WE were capable of at their age?_

Saldís’s lips flattened. She wished she could attribute the memories those words evoked to her Akhora-side, but that would be a lie. Like these jaded Novices forming files before her, she’d killed by their age. She’d learned not to trust. She’d attempted to dull her conscious and bury her hurts deep. 

_And you think you can undo all that in two weeks?_ She had no idea if that was herself or Akhora, but the thought hit home like a dagger thrust. 

To Aemazia, “You said you wished them molded into a cohesive unit.”

His frown was pure impatience. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

No, that was plain. She changed her mind, swallowing the words of her question. If he wished an explanation when she was done, doubtless Aemazia would inform her. 

_You think?_ Akhora asked scathingly. Then with renewed vengeance, _You misbegotten runt-lover! You have ruined everything!_

Well, aye, mayhap there was some truth in that. Not that she needed the harpy to point that out. 

Saldís descended to the lowest stair. The final Novices arrived. By her estimates, there were some three hundred of them ranging in age from twelve to sixteen. The blond Novice she’d saved. A brunette boy she’d silently protected as he’d returned to his barracks alone one night. Another she’d caught plotting against another Novice.

She’d been here for two weeks, and she knew a number of them. _Aye. Adâd, I can do this. If I stack my force with Weapons, start putting boundaries on the Arcanists…_

Saldís’s eyes narrowed. Aye, this was more than possible. She knew which Novices to select, which had the greatest potential. She’d been watching them closely, caring for them. They might turn on her. Aye, ‘twas likely. But if they didn’t… If they _didn’t…_

_So be it._ By the time they neared the path into Mordor at Minas Morgul, she’d either have a crew loyal to her and one another, or they’d all be damned. 

Stepping forward, she started making her choices.


	44. The Time for Action

_**Caeldor, Tovennen** _

Anuon stalked Caeldor’s streets, arrow notched and eyes sharp. At his back, Thannor kept pace, two throwing knives in his palms. Their task? To drastically weaken their foes as they attempted to win free from the city, to reach their companions in Dol Hamoth before the sun rose. 

The time for secrecy had passed. The time for open action had arrived. 

The two had bided their time, waiting until well past midnight to lull the city’s watch into a false sense of security. For the last twenty minutes, the two had coordinated their actions to take down one guard after another, leaving bodies in their wake as they headed to the eastern mouth of the canyon. To their credit, many guards had been quick to note when their fellows fell, but between the two of them, the Rangers methodically silenced each before the city was roused. 

So far.

_May our fortune hold._ Their success was due to their speed. Weapons and Arcanists fell before they could react. At some point, that would probably change. 

Perilous work. Suicidal, even. But as Anuon’s gaze flicked to his brother-in-law, he knew Thannor would not be dissuaded. Thannor had always been focused, rarely relaxing enough to smile except in the privacy of his own home, but the events of the day before had sharpened that to a razor’s edge. 

Thannor’s new daughter had departed with Saldís for Mordor, and Berenor had not been seen. Screams had issued forth from the Seat. Terrible, masculine screams that both Rangers knew had come from one of their companions’ throats. 

No, Thannor was a man driven. He would gain the dwarves’ aid in turning the tables on these Black Númenóreans, or he would return alone with the sun and die in a solitary assault on the city. 

_No. Not solitary._ Anuon would remain with him to whichever end fate decreed. 

A hint of movement teased the edges of his sight. Anuon whirled around. His arrow hissed to its target before his mind had identified it: an owl. Spy or wild animal? They’d know momentarily. 

Footsteps. A muffled commotion. _Spy._

A nearby door eased open. Slowly. Furtively. Thannor touched Anuon’s shoulder, then he sprinted across the street to position himself behind the outward swinging door. Anuon crouched deeper in the shadows, partially concealed by a thick palm tree. 

_That’s Fuinir Barracks._ His gut clenched. All they needed was…

The thought dissipated as an adult peeked around the door, a scarred-faced, gray haired woman wearing three onyx studs and a scowl. Her left foot stepped gingerly onto the street, and Anuon got his first sight of the tool the Arcanist had brought along for protection—an olive complected, dark eyed, curly haired boy of no more than ten years. 

Anuon drew back on his bowstring, aiming for her right eye.

The door retraced its path of its own accord. In seconds, Thannor would be exposed. 

_Eru._ Anuon loosed his arrow a split-second before Thannor struck. The bolt slammed home, hitting its intended target, but any scream she would have emitted was ended as Thannor’s dagger opened her neck. 

Thannor hastily dumped her body and grabbed for the boy, clamping a hand over the boy’s mouth and dragging him away from the door.

_Too close._ Anuon notched another arrow, focus returning to their surroundings, but even so, he knew when Thannor’s lips moved. What his brother by marriage said, Anuon couldn’t hear, but he hoped it was convincing. They could not possibly let the boy go now. For their sake and his.

Anuon snorted to himself, a dark humor finding him. _Since we risk our lives this night anyway, by Eru let us be bold as lions._

Thirty seconds later, Thannor led the boy back to where Anuon hid. “Hashad, this is Anuon. He’s with me.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed doubtfully. Then to Thannor, Hashad said, “I won’t go nowhere without Zobi.” The boy’s voice quivered, and his thin shoulders trembled, but Anuon read Hashad’s determination in his mulish expression. 

“We’ll do our best to free him when we return,” Thannor promised. 

Anuon shot him a look: _Don’t you mean “if”?_ They had yet to escape, much less rally the troops. 

“You’re lying,” Hashad accused, attention flying between the two Rangers. The distrust painted upon his face jumped by leaps and bounds.

_By the Valar._ This mission was the hardest thing Anuon had ever experienced. To see children so damaged broke his heart.

Thannor placed a hand on the boy’s arm, squatting until his head was at the boy’s level. “Hashad, we cannot protect all those we mean to free this night without help.”

“We’ll help you,” Hashad said, thumb pointing at his chest. “Zobi and me. Zobi’s real good.”

Another glance between Rangers. Thannor’s lifted brow: _Well?_ Anuon’s short shake of the head: _Your decision._ Saldís’s decision to trust a Novice had led to Barhador’s death. Thannor knew the cost deeper than any of trying that tactic. 

Anuon let his sister’s husband decide.

“Alright,” Thannor said after a long pause. “I am putting a lot of trust in you, Hashad. Our lives and your future are in your hands.” Thannor’s arm dropped to dangle upon one knee. “Please do not fail me. For my new daughter. My son. I swear on my honor that my kinsmen came to save you children from this life. A number of them have spent the night screaming because they cared too much to leave you here.”

Hashad’s dark eyes narrowed, and his jaw worked as if chewing tangibly as well as mentally. Then the curly-haired boy nodded. “Zobi and me, we’re a team. If you’re what you say you are, then I guess we’ll help you. I’m not really good, not with a blade, and that’s all as counts to the Hands. ‘S just a matter of time before I’m taken to an altar.” His foot scuffed the pavement, and his lips pursed. “I don’t want Zobi dying ‘cause of me.”

_Eru,_ Anuon thought again. A muscle in his cheek twitched. The two Rangers said nothing as Hashad loped back this barracks and disappeared inside.

OoOoOo

“Alright. We’ve waited long enough,” Hlein murmured.

Finnin had his shackles removed before Hlein finished speaking. Impatience was a molten fire rushing through his veins. He had to get out of Caeldor, and by Mahal, he had to catch his lassie. 

Deep in his heart pounded the refrain that he’d failed her. As a child. On the Vengeance. And perhaps now. 

No, if she was forced into Mordor, it would be with him at her side. He cared little how he brought it about. He’d play the lovesick fool, follow after the commander as if he’d been reduced to a plaything. He cared naught the scorn from others. Pride would not deter him. 

_To the end, Bâhzundushuh. I’ll follow you to the grave itself._

Finnin shrugged out of his tunic and spread it before him—a makeshift workspace. In unison, the dwarves dismantled the chain links and wrist and ankle irons, carefully shaking the fire powder Finnur had cached away in a pile on the tunic. Beside it, they deposited wee darts and blow tubes—as superior from the Black Númenórean versions as Saldís’s dwarf-forged scimitar. 

More tools followed. Flint stones. Twisted wire garrotes—not a dwarf’s weapon, for sure, but Finnin was not about to quibble given the size restrictions his brother had worked with. Caltrops. Even a whip Finnur had managed to stuff into one o’ the ankle irons. (As if either dwarf was versed in it.) 

But the best of the lot? Bits of steel that snapped together to form short, squat daggers. Finnin tested his with relish, gratified at the solid heft of the weapon. 

“Your brother,” Hlein proclaimed, “is one dangerous dwarf.”

_Aye._ Finnin wished his brother’s detractors could see him now. 

He set aside the dagger. Finnin unscrewed a series of links from which poured saltpeter, then sugar, and last leavening soda. “How much do I use?” He stared helplessly at the ingredients.

“He’s your brother,” Hlein responded.

And that was supposed to mean something? “It does not make _me_ an expert.”

Hlein’s grin flashed. “It does tonight. Ready?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Finnin mumbled to himself. He remembered Finnur saying something about those last three ingredients, but truth be told, his mind had more been on his Saldís than hearkening to his brother’s many instructions. 

A mistake, but with the memory of her lips fresh in his mind, he didn’t badger himself much over it. There were some things worth losing one’s focus over, and his Saldís’s kisses ranked highest on the list.

In unison, the two collected their bounty. Hlein grabbed the whip, tying it about his waist. Finnin took the caltrops, thrusting them into his right pants pocket. Both claimed a garrote, blow tubes and darts— _You’d best have laced them with something, Brother, for a bee’s prick of pain is not going to be of service to us this night_ —and the fire powder was split between them along with the flint stones. 

_Best not brush near any open flames wearing that._

Finnin returned to those three remaining powders. “Better too much than too little,” he decided.

Hlein, the cretin, patted him on the head in an altogether patronizing manner. 

Before backing away. 

As far as their cell permitted.

Finnin mixed the powders, then sprinkled a worm of it along the door’s edge. A quick slash with his new dagger provided a nice scrap of fabric to act as the fuse. A couple raps of the flint showered the fabric with sparks. A wee bit of coaxing, a correcting of the position of the cloth scrap, and all was set. He scurried to Hlein’s side, dagger gripped tightly.

Sweat trickled down his chest as the wee flame consumed its way down the fuse, taking its sweet time. Tempting indeed to blow on it harder.

Then, it licked the powder. At first, Finnin was not impressed. Scarce anything happened. But then the flame sputtered and flared, devouring the mixture hungrily. A thick smoke poured forth like naught Finnin had ever before seen. Hlein tugged his shirt over his nose. Before Finnin decided to do the same, his tunic was buried beneath a white-gray smoke carpet that reached their knees. 

The air thickened, making it more difficult to breathe. Finnin began to lose sight of Hlein in the growing haze. What were the Mahal-curse-them Númenóreans doing, sleeping at their posts? 

Finally, there was the jangle of keys, the throwing of the crossbar. The instant the door cracked open, both dwarves launched themselves at it, ramming it open and sending some soul to the floor—a floor rapidly disappearing beneath the spreading smoke. 

_Definitely too much powder._ Should Finnur ever give instructions on its use again, Finnin vowed to pay closer attention.

Finnin aimed a kick at the downed man’s skull, ensuring the man would stay down. Then shoulder to shoulder, he and Hlein attacked the rest of their guards. 

In the confined space, there was piddling room to maneuver, but the two dwarves made the best use of it, working together and changing positions without warning. Hlein rolled over Finnin’s back, taking himself out of range of a deadly strike, and later, Finnin ducked around the other dwarf when a fortunate blow sent his dagger skittering across the floor. After that, Finnin used his fists and feet. 

Finnin took a slice across his chest—shallow, thank Mahal, but it stung something fierce—and at one point, Hlein staggered into him. _(Injured?)_ Neither dwarf faltered. Defeat was not an option, and well they both knew it. Finnin gritted his teeth and fought on.

As in Umbar, there was no talk among the enemy. The Númenóreans fought to the last woman, and she met her end within the unforgiving grip of Hlein’s garrote. A gruesome weapon, for sure, with a dwarf’s strength behind it, but Finnin had no sympathy for these wretches. 

Without fuss, the dwarves bent over their foes’ bodies, stripping them of aught they could use. Finnin coughed as he strapped two scimitars to his waist. By Durin, the smoke now filled the entire corridor, obscuring his vision in both directions. 

A low crow from Hlein drew Finnin’s attention. The older dwarf held aloft an iron ring with keys. “These may come in handy,” the dwarf lord said.

“Not now, surely.” Their chances of escaping Caeldor were bad enough with two of them. Add a host of slaves, and they might as well lock themselves up with true chains and sit themselves back in their cell.

Hlein shook his head. “Nay, lad. But at some point, we’ll be freeing these people. These,” he jangled the ring, “will make the task much simpler.”

True enough.

The two hurried from the Slaves' Den, leaving the front door open behind them.

OoOoOo

This was stupid.

Zobi repeated the refrain with each step he and Hashad took following the men. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He tossed a scowl Hashad’s way. 

He knew Hashad wasn’t doing so good, and Hashad was right. If something didn’t happen fast, Hashad would die. Either another Novice would kill him, or the Hands would. 

So, yes, it was stupid, but like Hashad, Zobi didn’t see many other options. That woman with the tattoo had protected them once. Though these men didn’t wear the mark, Zobi found himself hoping they were like her. Zobi _could not_ lose Hashad. 

So instead, stupid or not, Zobi prowled in the men’s wake, scimitar in hand and Hashad walking before him where he’d be better protected. Zobi would throw in with these strangers, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. 

The four prowled down one street after another, each carrying them closer to Caeldor’s eastern edge. If any animal or adult crossed their path, Thannor, Anuon, and Zobi took care of it. 

Until the two dwarf prisoners joined them. “How’d _you_ get loose?” Zobi blurted.

The younger dwarf said nothing, merely positioned himself beside Thannor, but the elder winked at Zobi, then included Hashad in his regard. “Hlein, son of Hlear, at your service, lads. My friend there is Finnin.”

“How’d you get loose?” Zobi repeated.

The older dwarf’s smile widened. “We’re dwarves, lad. We’re always prepared.”

_How,_ Zobi longed to know. Instead, he kept his ears open and remained close to the group. 

To his shock, they overcame the eastern guards in a frighteningly effective ambush. Before the sun rose, Zobi and Hashad were free of Caeldor for the first time in their lives.

OoOoOo

_  
**Gharri Oasis, Far Harad**  
_

The sun rose, and Saldís watched her Novices climb out of their bedrolls. For a moment, she imagined dwarflings in their place, and her heart gave a pang. If ‘twas she and Finnur, they’d have been whispering to one another all night—or until some adult had shushed them into submission. These children barely acknowledged one another, and when their eyes landed on their fellows, it was with mistrust.

_That changes this morning._ Whether they liked it or not, these Novices were going to have their world shaken. Only by ripping away their old moorings could she hope to reach them.

As the teens silently went about their self-appointed duties, feeding themselves and tending their mounts, she made her way to where Erynor sat bound to a palm tree in full sight of the entire contingent of Black Númenóreans. The blond-haired Brother remained a bit pale—the residual effects of the poison that had felled him—but his dark eyes were alert if tired, his chin speckled with whiskers. 

Crouching before him, she pressed her water pouch to his lips. His throat moved as he gulped his fill, then his head leaned back. She resealed the pouch with a leather cord and slung it around one shoulder. Next, she offered him jerky, feeding him one bite at a time.

Such a task might have been beneath Ib-Akhora, but Saldís trusted no other with his wellbeing. If some thought her behavior odd (Mahris), she responded scathingly by asking who, exactly, was responsible for this prisoner. Who would answer to Sauron? As an argument, it had proved a highly effective one, carrying a distinct ring of truth. 

Hilliz approached when Erynor was about half way through the meal Saldís had intended to feed him. “Ib-Akhora.”

Ib. Though not by word, Aemazia had left Saldís in charge. From the moment the party had left Caeldor, both Weapons had addressed her as such.

“Ne-Hilliz?” The sack of jerky, too, was tied shut. She squinted at the sun’s low position and remained squatting while awaiting the man’s reason for approaching her.

“Shall I give the order to move out?” 

“No.” That gave the big man pause. “Assemble the Novices. I need to address them.” She flashed a brief, humorless smile. “We won’t be leaving just yet.”

Hilliz’s dark eyes flew back to her, heavy with suspicion. “May I remind you—”

That fast, she was in his face. “Ar-Aemazia gave me a task, Ne-Hilliz.” Then slightly calmer, “I’d assumed you were apprised.”

His eyes narrowed, and his strong, tanned face hardened. “Task?”

Saldís growled lowly. “I’ll explain when the Novices are assembled. This will be no pleasure trip. You, Mahris and I have work to do.”

Heavy black eyebrows flew upwards, but the Weapon set about obeying her orders without hesitation. 

“Task?” Erynor whispered.

Mindful of the dozen or so Novices present, she turned a smile upon the young Ranger, one she knew was just shy of evil. “So curious about our doings, traitor?” she cooed. “It so happens you’ll have a front row seat.” Then in a voice laced with threat, “Pray to your impotent Valar that is all you endure.” Then over one shoulder as she walked away, “Try to escape. My new proteges would enjoy a running target upon which to hone their skills.”

Nearby, a handful of Novices cackled, and Saldís swallowed her revulsion both at her words and the Novices’ response. By her soul, she longed for something to wash away the bitter taste the foul words had left in her mouth. 

_Do what must be done,_ she told herself as she took position at the head of the forming Novice ranks. _Survive now._ That was the name of this game. She’d do what was necessary to protect herself, Erynor, and (Eru grant) any Novices to come out of her intended training changed.

_You can save more of them,_ Akhora suddenly purred. _Please Aemazia, give up this insane mission, and we will be their Hand._ An image bloomed, a temptation: Saldís overseeing all of the young. Molding them. _Protecting_ them.

She thrust it away angrily. Akhora, she decided, was getting better at this. But for now, she focused on the young charges lined up before her.

They stared at back. An even one hundred and twenty-six Novices. ‘Twas likely more than she should have attempted, but by Durin, she’d brought every one of them she believed it possible to turn around. _By my soul, I’ll do my best to save them, Adâd._

“Akhora?” Mahris sidled up next to her. 

“I have reason,” Saldís answered shortly. 

“I hope so.” Hilliz took up position at her other shoulder. 

Saldís took one step forward. “Welcome, Novices, to the first day of your new life.” Though she didn’t glance their way, she was certain both Mahris and Hilliz were stiff as boards after that bold declaration. 

The two Weapons, however, weren’t her target audience. She ignored them. “Ar-Aemazia has handed us a task.” A handful of confused and suspicious glances slid sideways among her “troops”. “One which, if you succeed, will bring you more glory and honor than Weapons and Arcanists thrice your age.” 

That got their attention. 

“Caeldor is divided. You know this. Each of you has seen it. House against House. Weapons against Arcanists.” Here, her tone turned scornful. “We are _weak._ Whether it was the accursed Blue Wizard who recruited spies to place among us does not matter. None of it would have worked had we not possessed a flaw so fatal.” _‘Tis the truth, and well they know the sound of it._

“Each of you knows my reputation,” she continued after a brief pause. “I do not play games. Many of you may doubt me, wondering where I’ve been or how I survived.” She gave them a brittle smile. “The answer lies in that same weakness. My teammate betrayed us all in Dale. He risked everything our people have labored centuries for, and for what? His own advancement. Which,” she added dryly, “he gained. For now.”

Which begged the question: where _was_ the rotten _muzm?_

Her gaze swept among them, studying, measuring. “In the end, I was imprisoned in Erebor, held by dwarves. There, I witnessed a kind of strength unknown to Caeldor. One Ar-Aemazia in his wisdom now desires to grasp hold of. The strength of _unity.”_

Oh, how the doubts were written upon their faces. All but one—the blond haired Novice she’d saved once stared at her with tangible intensity. 

“Novice Yanar,” she said.

The fifteen year old brunette boy snapped straight. “Ib-Akhora?”

“Imagine you stand before the gates of Dol Amroth. You have spent hours fighting against the hundreds of Swan Knights that rallied to their prince’s banner. You are tired, but your skills outmatch the lesser men before you. Outnumbered or not, you hold your ground with your fellows at your side.”

“We’d kill them,” one girl dared say.

A few sniggered, and the black-haired fourteen-year-old who’d spoken blanched as Mahris stepped towards her.

Akhora barred Mahris’s next step with an outstretched arm. To the girl, “You would try.” 

Back to the boy, her arm falling. “But let’s say they outnumber you ten to one. You and five others have been cut off from the rest of our people. Your life depends upon the Weapons and Arcanists with you, Weapons that perhaps you have a grudge against. Or an Arcanist who wants you dead. The enemy surrounds you. And while the battle rages, the Swan Knights trust one another implicitly because they know each of their countrymen will bleed and die to defend them, just as they would offer up their lives to defend their countrymen.”

Yanar’s face said he had something to say, so Saldís gestured to him. “Go ahead Yanar.”

“We… We would fall, wouldn’t we? We would be busy not only fighting the Swan Knights, but we would have to watch our own backs.”

A new thought to her Novices, Saldís decided. Some turned angry, clearly not agreeing, but some—aye, most—realized the truth of what Yanar said.

“So,” Saldís said. “We are weaker. The Dark Lord will win this war…” _(Not on my watch,_ a part of her promised darkly) “…and likely he can do so without us. But if we want to not only survive but thrive, we must change.” _Mahal, let them change._ Little seeds now, bigger later.

Not for Sauron. Never for that one. Somehow, Saldís would shape these Novices, and when the time was right, their allegiance must swing to Princess Dís or even Chieftain Aragorn.

“Here is what is going to happen,” she told them. “From this point forward, you are mine. You will answer to me. During this journey, I will train you as you’ve never been trained before, and by the Eye, before we reach Mordor, you will be such a fighting unit as Caeldor has never imagined. Each morning, you will rise an hour before the sun. You will tend to your needs and those of your mount. At sunrise, you will pair off with your partner for sparring and training.”

Saldís stepped forward, walking among them. “I will spend time with each of you, learning where you excel, and what your weaknesses might be.” A pause. “And you will have them. We all do. But I guarantee you, so long as you fight for me, none will use them against you.” A dark grin. “Or I’ll throw the one to do so in a viper’s pit and have done with him. Or her.”

Silence. Wide-eyed and all-encompassing.

“Before we depart from this oasis, I will partner each of you with a Novice of my choosing.” A hard look at them. “Put aside your petty squabbles, because your partner is now your best friend. If something happens to one of you, it had better happen to the other. You guard each other’s backs, because if you don’t, you answer to me. If you play games upon your partner, again, it is my sword you will face. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Ib-Akhroa,” a number barked.

“I asked if you understood me?” Louder, this time.

In unison, they collectively hollered, “Yes, Ib-Akhora.”

“Good.” She strode back towards the front of their lines. A thought, and she again turned in a circle, giving each a sweep of the eyes. “One more thing. You Arcanists are used to the power your magics can bring you. Don’t argue, it is a truth we all know. In the past, you were permitted to hone your abilities by spying on your fellow Novices without repercussions. That, too, ends here. What is said between partners will remain between them. You do not betray a word your partner utters. Likewise, no eavesdropping on other pairs.”

She rejoined Mahris and Hilliz. Mahris hummed to herself, a fey look upon her face. Hilliz, she was relieved to note, appeared thoughtful. For now, she had them. “This goes for the two of you as well,” she said in an undertone. 

Hilliz startled, but it was to Mahris that Saldís addressed, “No playing with Novices. If they are ever to function as a unit, they need to trust us and they need to trust one another. This is my task, and if you obstruct me in any fashion, Mahris, I will end you.”

With that, she returned to the kids and began to pair them. 

‘Twas a step, forcing them to rely upon one other Novice. _Crack open the door. Begin to sow trust._ In a few days time, if things progressed as she hoped, she’d then pair the pairs into quartets—all of them loyal to his or her group first, and each group looking to Saldís. 

She caught Erynor’s eye as the Novices, now paired, broke apart to spar. The Ranger’s subtle thumbs-up gave her encouragement.

OoOoOo

_  
**Caeldor, Tovennen**  
_

Less than one hour after Nori had heard all of Thannor’s tale, the Black Company converged on Caeldor. Enough was enough. ‘Twas past time this ended. Nori was done with stalemates or playing it safe. The trickster had a few surprises up his sleeve, and it was high time he used them.

Finnur crouched at his side in the dubious shade of a green tumbleweed. They’d dressed in their battle gear, aye, but all o’ it was plastered with desert dirt. 

“We’ll need to time it just so,” Nori cautioned the inventor. 

Finnur grunted unhappily. “I’d still rather be fighting these cretins, not sneaking around the cliffs.”

Of course, ‘twas then the persistent Zobi spoke up. From suspicious and wary, the lad had responded to news that the Company had prepared the canyon to be blown to Mahal himself with too much eagerness. “I’ll do it. Me and Hashad.”

The brown-haired and black-haired duo nodded in unison. 

Nori tugged upon a braid in his beard. “Not to be spoiling yer good mood, lads, but ye fair look likely to destroy the canyon whilst our friends are still in it.” When they glared, he added, “Not that I’m of a mind to be blaming you. That _ugrad kûd_ (coward dung) down there deserves a far worse fate that being blown to bits, and in your place, I’d want to be the one to do the exploding. But yer not the only Novices we’re savin’, are you now? Even if’n ye care naught for the youngsters, it’s one thing to vent your rage on your enemy. It’s quite another to murder innocent babes.”

Both blinked. Exchanged looks. Hashad: “The nursery, Zobi.” 

To which Zobi replied, “I ain’t no baby killer.” 

Nori hid his relief, his gaze crossing Finnur’s and reading an equal measure of relief in Finnur’s blue eyes. To the lads, Nori said, “If ye still wish to help, we’ll be thankful for it.” Then as Zobi cheered markedly, “No heroics, got it? My niece didn’t save your hide for you to throw it away.”

Blue eyes met Nori’s, and the lad’s chin lifted. “I ain’t no fool. Hashad and me? We’re going to live to be free of them.”

Nori clapped the lad on the back gently. “If you two decide to return to us to Thorin’s Hall, you’ll be welcome,” he said in an intentionally mild tone. “If you’re as good as you say, Dwalin will be pleased to add you to our warriors.” 

At Hashad’s crestfallen expression, Nori gentled his voice. “Don’t be too quick to be disheartened, young Hashad. If it’s a warrior’s life you want, Dwalin will find the weapon for you. We’ve only to find it.”

Nori took a deep inhale, then he exhaled gustily. “Ready?”

All three nodded. Leaning around the bush, Nori brought out a scrap o’ mirror given him by Finnur. A flash. Two. Across the canyon, an answering flash of light. 

“Let’s go.”


	45. The Fall of Caeldor

Ar-Aemazia stepped over the bodies of his slain warriors, furious. The scene splayed out for him brought to mind Tagan’s death and the consequences of disappointing Mordor’s lord. True fear chilled him.

“How?” he asked softly, eyes scanning the hallway. Berúthiel’s lord made his way to the door of the dwarves’ cage and fingered its frame. _Wooden._ The door and frame both. Who had ordered dwarves kept behind nothing but _wood?_

Crossing the threshold, his inspection continued. An ashen scar ran along the base of the door, marring the stone floor. He crouched down and pinched the residue between thumb and index finger. “You say smoke filled the entire Den?”

“Yes, my Lord Aemazia,” House Fuinir’s commander, Zimir, answered. “We removed the slaves for fear of losing them all to the smoke.”

A good precaution. They could not afford that loss on top of everything else. 

Next, Aemazia rifled among the remains of the dwarves’ chains. One discarded link betrayed its secret: the pieces screwed together masterfully. The shackles were a ruse. 

_You betrayed me,_ he directed to the absent Akhora, his fist clenching around the tell-tale iron link. He could see it now. Akhora returned to dwarves. Now this. Somehow, the runts had stolen her allegiance, taken back what should never have been theirs. 

An instant resolve: should there ever again be such a child, he would die the moment he was reclaimed. But by the Eye, who could have foreseen such an outrage? 

“Doubtless there are more dwarves in the area,” he growled, tossing the link aside. 

“Dwarves? What business have they here?” a new voice intruded.

_So. Kavish arrives._ Doubtless to save them all with his brilliance. Aemazia’s head rotated to glare at the young lord. “They are jealous and possessive. What reason do you think would bring them here?” he snapped. “The evidence indicates they came with Akhora.”

“Whom I told you could not be trusted,” the younger man dared say.

Aemazia surged to his feet. “Thank you, Lord Herumor. In my old age, I’d quite forgotten that.”

The man’s epiglottis bobbed with his swallow. 

“We needed someone the Novices might trust,” Aemazia snarled. “To undo the damage perverted fools like you have wrought with your appalling lack of self-control. Her reputation stood alone. So I ask you, Lord Herumor, who would you have chosen?”

“I would have whipped the Novices into obedience. There was no need—”

Aemazia’s uplifted hand glowed blue as he cut off all air to the other Arcanist. His other hand latched around Kavish’s collar and hauled the man close. “And that,” he bit out, “is why the Dark Lord will destroy us. Little use are a bunch of squabbling children unable to obey simple commands or maintain order.”

He thrust the other lord from him with disgust, ignoring Kavish’s coughs and glower. “Ib-Zimir,” Aemazia said.

“Yes, my lord.” The hirsute, ash-blond Arcanist straightened. With his heavy eyebrows and thick jaw, the man appeared almost brutish in comparison with his peers. 

“Tell Lord Sangahyando—” Aemazia began.

“My Lord Berúthiel!” a voice called. 

“Now what?” Aemazia lifted his voice. “Here!”

A sixteen year old Arcanist-Novice rushed up to him. “Ar-Nahlis sends for you. The Blue Wizard has returned.”

Aemazia’s lips compressed. Dwarves. The Blue Wizards. He wildly wondered if any other of Caeldor’s enemies lurked, ready to join the fray. Perhaps, he fumed to himself, they should send invitations to the blighted Dunedain!

OoOoOo

Glinor’s second performance took place in the exact same patch of dirt as the first, though it had nothing to do with Finnur’s bolt-hole. That hadn’t been reset, so if things took a bad turn, Glinor would not be escaping that way.

This time, there were no booming declarations, no dripping hat or damp clothes. Instead, a grim determination ruled him. This plan must work. 

Half-hidden behind Glinor, Anuon crouched, bow strung and arrow notched. If Glinor could have selected any of his kindred to guard him this day, Anuon would have been his preference. Though not an elf’s equal, the archer was frighteningly accurate with his bow. It would be Anuon who would attempt to keep him alive this hour.

A flash of light. Nori’s signal—all were in position. Anuon acknowledged it with a flick of his own mirror.

“Here we go,” the red-head murmured.

_Indeed._ In his pocket, Glinor carried all that remained of Finnur’s metal birds…some of which had been modified for another purpose. Glinor palmed one of the prized creations carrying Gandalf’s fire powder, wound the gear upon its belly, and sent it hurtling towards the Black Númenóreans’ dispensary. The enemy’s supplies of poisons, herbals, and stolen blood must be destroyed first.

Númenóreans had already reacted to Glinor’s presence—fingers pointed his way—when the bird hit. A second bird winged after it, its target the same. 

An uproar from below. Men shouted, racing to douse the flames consuming what remained of the dispensary. Others rushed for vantage points from which to strike back, their hands clamped around their weapons of choice. 

Those, the Ranger trusted to Anuon. 

Like magic, the city’s populace emptied into the streets. Even, he scowled to note, the Novices. The young ones hung back, milling about uncertainly, but the older wretches that Saldís had not taken with her—the Black Company had all agreed she’d left them as too perilous to attempt in the short time she had—joined the adults eagerly. 

It was time for another toy. Keep things chaotic. Keep the Númenóreans guessing and perhaps (Eru willing) too busy to organize the young Novices. 

Glinor retrieved another bird, this one marked with a small yellow splotch of paint atop its head. After assessing the formations materializing beneath him, he chose his targets. If he’d retained any doubts where the teens were concerned, they were laid to rest as he noticed something he’d missed previously: too many of those kids wore the Eye pendant boldly, as if proud of themselves.

_Forgive us._ Accidents happened in war, and this war-zone had too many children in it. The Company had done all they could in their plans to protect them, but…

Glinor let the yellow-marked bird fly.

OoOoOo

“I’m not liking this.”

Glivin’s lips tilted upwards in a tiny smile. No, his Brother, Ragan, had said that near a dozen times since that Nori fellow had told them his plan and Glivin had volunteered to help.

Dwarf and boy crouched half a dozen yards away from the southernmost edge of the canyon, a long coil of rope held ready and eyes waiting on Nori’s signal.

“It’s not right to let a child go into danger,” Ragan groused.

“I’m no child,” Glivin told him quietly. “None of us are.” He gingerly lifted a hand and patted the dwarf on the back when Ragan reacted to his words with white-lipped fury. A fury, Glivin recognized with wonder, that was directed not _at_ him but _for_ him.

_I have Brothers._ The thought kept ringing through his mind. He had such a hard time believing it. 

The brief time with the Dunedain and dwarves had been like food to the affection-starved Novice. He didn’t ever want to be without them again. That’s why when he learned they were set on bringing down Caeldor, he’d volunteered. If _his_ Brothers were going to battle, Glivin figured he was, too. 

Besides, he owed the three that had been captured better than to just leave ‘em there. Glivin would help his Brothers get them back.

Ragan’s scowl turned Glivin’s way. “Don’t you go patronizing me, lad. You might be an all-fired mighty Weapon descended from kings, but I can still whomp you.”

For a terrifying heartbeat, Glivin’s heart stopped—had he angered Ragan?—but then Glivin saw the twinkle in the dwarf’s eye. _Teasing,_ he decided, his relief big enough to prod his lips into his first big grin. 

“I’d ask you not to go,” Ragan murmured, his attention returning to the direction from which they knew Nori’s signal would come. “But truth is, we need you.”

Glivin’s nod was a jerk of the head. “I won’t let you down.”

The dwarf’s mane of black curls brushed Glivin’s nose, it whipped around so fast. Green eyes peered at him intently. “That, I’m doubting you could do.”

A distant flicker of light, and they both stiffened. “You be extra careful, you hear me, Glivin-lad? I’m meaning to convince you to return to Thorin’s Hall with me. My wife, Gylta, will skin me alive if I let anything happen to you.”

Glivin startled. “She doesn’t know me.”

Ragan cuffed him gently behind the head. “She’ll be wroth if she never gets the chance. Quick now. That’s the second signal. You need to move.”

Glivin’s feet stumbled the first three steps towards the cliff as his mind tripped on Ragan’s words. Go home with this dwarf? Did Ragan mean for him to live with them?

Hope sparked, but Glivin dashed it away. First, he had a mission to complete, one his Brothers—one _Ragan_ —counted upon him to complete. 

That was just what Glivin intended to do. 

A dozen seconds later, Glivin slid down the length of rope Ragan held. His feet touched down lightly upon the street. A wave, and the rope was recoiled fast. Glivin drew his scimitar and jogged towards his destination.

OoOoOo

Ragan set the rope aside and collected the crossbow the Rangers had stolen from Caeldor’s armory. He was not the best shot in Middle Earth, not by a long stretch, but he was passable. If anyone tried to climb out of Caeldor, Ragan would use the luckless sap for target practice.

None of the Black Númenóreans could be permitted to escape.

His frown returned to the city below. Ragan and Gylta had yet to have bairns of their own—that would come in time, he was sure. And Glivin hardly needed babying. But in that lad, he saw a soul a-thirsting for family. Ragan knew not how the Rangers felt about it, but Ragan intended to offer the boy a place in Ragan’s own household. 

That boy had the potential to become a fierce warrior, a brave and noble man. Ragan intended to ensure that happened.

OoOoOo

Zobi couldn’t believe it. The Company had actually allowed him and Hashad to go off alone. Were they that stupid?

 _It’s called trust,_ a part of him provided.

_Oh, shove it._

Still, he couldn’t deny the results. Zobi’d never been a part of nothing before, nothing but him and Hashad, and to be trusted now? Well, he didn’t right know what to do about it. 

He grumbled at how guilty it made him feel. He should grab Hashad. The two could make a run for it, disappear and no one would know the difference in the ruckus. 

But he felt _guilty._ How was a feller supposed to go and do the smart thing with that pestering him? 

_This is so stupid._

“Here,” Hashad whispered. 

“You sure?” Zobi peeked over the cliff edge into the city below. Sure enough, they were as near to the Nursery as they could get. 

“Of course I’m sure,” Hashad was saying with irritation. A pause. “Do you s’pose we’ll do any fighting?”

Zobi fingered his scimitar. “I hope so.”

He settled back on his heels, keeping low so as none could see him from below. Soon’s the action really got goin’, two Rangers would join them.

Zobi figured it was the first time ever he’d gotten to play the hero.

OoOoOo

Aemazia’s steps slowed. His eyes scanned the devastation before him.

The loss of the dispensary boiled his blood and brought a tick to his left eye. The stone and wood building was nothing more than a pile of rubble with flames greedily devouring everything trapped between the crumbled hunks of masonry. Smoke poured from the debris in a black cloud laced here and there with green and yellow wisps, and just beyond its reach, a half dozen warriors slumped, none of them looking well. 

To be expected. They’d attempted to save the dispensary, the fools, instead of throwing the more expendable Novices at the problem. Many of the dispensary’s stores were hazardous in their normal state. Put them to fire, and a number turned deadly. 

Aemazia spat a virulent curse, turned his back on the fools, and glared up at the wizard. Each Arcanist had his own stores of blood vials, but by the Eye, the wealth of the city’s supplies of the precious fluids now lay beneath the structure, burning.

_If it is the last thing I do, wizard, I will kill you._

The Blue Wizard extended his hand in a throwing motion. An object glinted in the sun. 

What was this? With utmost attention, Lord Beruthiel followed the object, loping down the street to keep it in sight. He barely noticed his guards keeping pace, and he waved off Nahlis’s shouted question when he passed her position.

The object plowed into the soft bank of one of the valley’s pools. With caution, the aged Arcanist bent down and scooped it up, his expression stony as the clearly dwarf-crafted bird began to spray smoke out of its joints.

Aemazia thrust it at the nearest Weapon. “Hold this.”

A gesture commanded the rest to back away from the Weapon. She did as told—of course she did, or Aemazia would have cut her down on the spot—but the raven-haired forty-year-old’s face betrayed her anger at being so used. 

The group collectively waited as more and more smoke poured forth, turning the area hazy. Nothing more happened. 

_So. The same trick as was used in the Slaves’ Den._

Why smoke? There was only one conclusion he could make: blind Caeldor for an invasion.

“Rally the forces,” he snapped, taking the bird back from the woman and tossing it into the pond, hoping the water would halt its mechanism. “The enemy is preparing to invade in full force.” 

He broke into a run. A direct confrontation? Aemazia dared them. With the number of Arcanists he had, even if many were untried Novices, the outcome was inevitable. The enemy would die.

OoOoOo

Glinor’s “staff” jerked, absorbing the heavy cross bolt and almost failing to halt it from reaching his face. The sharp iron head halted an inch before his nose.

 _“Rhaich!”_ he spat. (Curses!) _Too close._ “Anuon?”

“I know,” the other Ranger growled. The _thwap_ of his bow was a steady percussion as Anuon fired at Weapons and Arcanists alike in between bringing down any bird or animal to venture within range. At this rate, Glinor thought, Anuon would be out of arrows soon. Much too soon. 

A mass of…something…suddenly formed in the air above one of Caeldor’s buildings—Sangahyando’s dormitory, Glinor belatedly identified. The globular, watery form undulated as if many invisible fingers pressed against its sides to keep it afloat. 

_What is th—?_

In unison, the two Dunedain threw themselves to their left as the thing launched right at them. Glinor’s dive ended in a roll that returned him to a crouch. With heart pounding, he looked back. 

Horror filled him. The area they’d abandoned was both scorched to a crisp and flooded with water. _“Mibo orch,”_ he muttered. (Kiss an orc.)

“I’ll pass on that, if you don’t mind,” Anuon said in a hard voice. “Sorry, Glinor. Arcanists first. Keep your staff handy.”

Glinor nodded grimly, his eyes on the streets below and the archers aiming for him. As Nori had hoped, the smoke weapons had prompted the Black Númenóreans to form ranks in preparation for a full assault. What other point could there be for such weapons, or so the Company had hoped the enemy would reason. Some Númenóreans abandoned their attempts to kill Glinor to ready themselves for the massive army presumed to be coming. 

Sleight of hand. Trickery. Or as Nori had labeled it, “A wee bit o’ prestidigitation.” Call it what one wished, it was all bluff, and it was all the Black Company had. 

Glinor hoped the enemy didn’t stop to question it. Lobbing more of the yellow-splotched birds, he murmured, “They’re in formation. They’re buying it.” 

“Good.” Out came Anuon’s mirror once more.

OoOoOo

“Alright, lad,” Nori said upon receiving Anuon’s signal. “Bring it down.”

And Mahal grant Finnur had calculated this next maneuver correctly. Well did any dwarf with a cursory knowledge of mining and tunneling know how one wee mistake could destabilize an entire mountainside. 

Finnur chortled, clapped Nori on the back, and raced off, his obscenely cheerful yellow coat flapping around his heels. Nori followed at a more sedate pace, his gaze upon the thickening ranks of Black Númenóreans assembling at this end of the canyon. 

One could wish most of ‘em were down there, but Nori knew that was a lost cause. More’n likely, that Ar-Aemazia had positioned troops at each end of the canyon and the bulk of his army in a central location. With Anuon pickin’ off the Arcanist’s spies as he was—and Thannor, Ragan, and Finnin doing likewise from their positions—the man would have no way of knowing which direction the enemy would hail from. The Black Númenóreans were blinded (he hoped), and Nori intended to keep them that way.

_Bet yer wishing now you’d not set up shop in a canyon, aren’t you,_ he thought at the enemy. Aye, the canyon had hidden them—too well, in fact—for thousands of years. But once discovered, ‘twas a trap ready for the exploiting. Nori was only too happy to be the one to do the exploiting. For Saldís. For what these wretches had robbed her of, and Bifur. 

For what they still did to the wee ones.

When the two reached the cliff overlooking the canyon’s mouth, Nori smirked down at the Númenóreans and waggled some fingers at them. They’d seen him straight off, so why not let ‘em get a good look-see at the soul who’d bring their city down around their ears. _Ye should never have crossed Durin’s folk. It’s a lesson you’ll not be forgetting._

If’n any of the wretches below survived this day.

The Weapons and Arcanists muttered among themselves, and ‘twas plain to Nori a disagreement was brewing. With Finnur at his knees, struggling with his flint, Nori blew the lot o’ them a kiss, laughing as an arrow flew his way, one he evaded easily given the angle the archer was attempting. 

“Nori,” Finnur complained as he bumped into him. 

“What’s the delay?” According to Finnur’s words earlier, ‘twas a matter of nothing more than lighting the fuse and running.

“I’m trying,” Finnur growled. “The fuse must have gotten too dusty.”

_Eh?_ “Well, fix it,” Nori said.

Finnur struck the flint a few more times. 

A handful of Númenóreans broke off and raced up the mouth towards the exit. Another soul clutched his Sauron-be-cursed pendant. Sure as rain, that was a spell in the making. “Finnur,” he warned.

A fireball flew at them. Nori’s eyes flared. His heart thumped. He grabbed Finnur, tossed him like a sack o’ bricks, and threw himself after him. 

The mass of fire slammed into earth like a blessed falling star, spraying dirt and scorching heat in all directions. Nori lifted his head, then yelped, slapping out the embers in his beard and…his _hair?_

“Forget the hair,” Finnur said, yanking from under his armpits. “Run!”

“What do you mean, run?”

“The explosives,” Finnur gasped. “When that heat reaches them…”

The rest was lost as a deafening _BOOM_ rent the air. From Nori’s perspective, it seemed they’d gone and blown up the world. The ground beneath his feet vanished, and Nori was air-bound. 

He had time for one last thought before the ground rushed up to meet him. Mayhap egging on the Arcanists had not been the brightest of ideas.

OoOoOo

_BOOM!_

Ar-Aemazia spun around, his jaw slack as the western edge of the canyon came down. The entire side of the cliff seemed to give way, spilling boulders bigger than men into Caeldor’s westernmost street. Dozens of buildings disappeared, buried underneath tons of rock and dirt, and dust billowed out, finishing the job begun by the dwarf-crafted birds. The air instantly clogged, making it difficult to see more than four or five feet in front of himself.

Aemazia wrapped his head scarf over his nose and mouth, the action rote. 

“By the Eye,” Ib-Zimir said from somewhere behind him. 

Aemazia’s mind ignited with realization. Sauron had shared news of a new weapon of war developed by Saruman the White. An invention that would, according to the wizard, bring down Helm’s Deep’s impregnable wall. 

_The Blue Wizards have this knowledge._ That or they were a more powerful enemy than the Dark Lord had imagined in his worst nightmares. In their long history, no wizard had ever done this before. 

His eyes lifted to the heights, and he recognized his jeopardy. _They can bring the canyon itself down upon us._ Everything could be lost—their entire stock of Breeders, the nursery, and Novices. 

_We can rebuild._ When the War was won. For now, Aemazia intended to salvage all that could be saved.

_We must extricate ourselves from this death trap, and quickly._ Was that the wizard’s intent, then? Bring the canyon down?

Or, he mused, was there more? His head turned to face the eastern edge of the canyon, but in the brown haze, he could not see so much as its silhouette. Either the Black Númenóreans must escape the canyon through that narrow passage, a passage sure to be guarded by the dwarf army and the wizard’s recruits, or they must attempt the cliffs.

With visibility so hindered, it was a possibility, but a dangerous one. “Zimir,” he barked.

“Yes, my lord?” The hairy man materialized at his right shoulder.

“Spread the word. Pull back to the center of town. Leave only a small contingent to watch that eastern pass. If it comes down, I want minimal losses. Understood?”

“I’ll see to it.” The man rushed off as soon as the words were spoken.

“He-Ahzar?” he called next.

The Arcanist, one of Aemazia’s guards, straightened. Aemazia noted the man’s readiness—blood vial in one hand, scimitar in the other—with approval. Ahzar’s dark eyes flicked his way. “Tell Nahlis’s House to empty the storehouses of climbing gear. And He-Ahzar?” The man halted. “Tell them to run.”

The Black Númenóreans would abandon the city. The slaves, Breeders, and infants in the nursery, he dismissed as casualties of war. They were not important.

OoOoOo

When the western tip of the canyon crumpled in upon itself, filling the rift with a thick blanket of dirt and dust, Thannor abandoned his first task, unstrung his bow and stowed it away. Goira, Kai, Kyri, and Hlein came pounding across the baked desert to his position at full tilt.

“Healer,” he addressed to the maid, “return as swift as you may.” Thannor scooped up his bag of supplies, all he could think might potentially be needed for his next task, and thrust it over his shoulders, arms through its loops. A tie at the belly secured it in place so that it wouldn’t hinder him.

Goira nodded shortly and quickly secured her shield to her back and mace to her side. Dressed in a simple woolen gown with a split skirt, she was ready for this mad effort as any of them. 

“Your kinsmen will need me. I know.” Goira touched Thannor’s arm. “My feet will have wings,” she promised. Then using the rope—one of only two left to them—Goira and her love, Kai, climbed down into the canyon. 

“I’ll have to bring the slaves through the eastern pass,” Hlein commented. “There’ll be no hauling them up here. Take too long.”

Thannor nodded his agreement. “Let’s hope it is only lightly protected. If the Númenóreans reinforce it, life with become trickier for us all.”

The old dwarf lord propped his big sword over one shoulder. “The fear of that other cliff coming down should keep their numbers to a minimum. If not…” Intent eyes peered up at Thannor. “Been a pleasure knowing you, laddie.” Adding Kyri to his regard, “All of you.”

“Be safe, Lord Hlein,” Thannor said. 

The dwarf did not sheathe his sword as Thannor expected but slid down the rope with one hand. Thannor’s palms burned in sympathy. 

“Well, Master Kyri. This is goodbye,” Thannor said.

Kyri gave him a short nod. “For now,” he stressed. “You get them free, Ranger. I’ll be here waiting for you.” He hefted one of a handful of crossbows scavenged from Caeldor by the Rangers. “Mayhap I’ll get to do a spot of hunting,” he added with a smirk. 

Thannor snorted. “You’ll get your wish. Odds are the enemy will send at least some of their fighters up the cliff walls.”

Kyri grunted. “Last thing they’ll see is my smiling face.”

OoOoOo

The instant the canyon’s west end blew, Finnin ran. Not to the west as every instinct screamed, but the east.

He’d been using one of Caeldor’s stolen crossbows to bring down birds left and right, and only luck permitted him to note the fireball that had flown up at his brother. From Finnin’s vantage point, it seemed unlikely Nori and Finnur had possessed sufficient time to run clear of the blast, and icy fear spread through his innards like ice over a pond. 

_Mahal._ Not his brother. Not his Saldís’s uncle.

But the plan. Someone had to be ready to light the fuse on the other end of the canyon. If Nori and Finnur were dead—it flayed him to imagine it—then it was up to Finnin. 

None of the enemy could leave the valley alive. Finnin would ensure they didn’t.

OoOoOo

While the dust rose to choke the city below from view, Anuon stowed his bow, collected his quiver, and then aided Glinor free of his cumbersome costume. “You have some of those smoke birds left?” he asked as they raced along the edge of the canyon to where Zobi and Hashad _(Eru, let them not have abandoned or betrayed us)_ awaited.

“Four only,” Glinor told him. 

“Explosives?”

Glinor tossed him a wicked smile. “Three.”

“Well, don’t waste them. When all this is over, we still have Mordor to worry about.”

Glinor’s smile vanished.

Two minutes later, they’d reached the boys. Anuon didn’t know about Glinor, but relief rushed through his chest to find the two youngsters armed and ready. 

Without word, Hashad tossed the rope he’d been entrusted with over the side of the cliff. In less than a minute, three of them collected at the base of the looming stone shelf. Hashad remained above to watch over the babes they hoped to pass up to him. 

Not the safest way to evacuate a nursery, but to dare the eastern mouth of the canyon would be worse. Fighting with arms full of squirming babies would spell all of their deaths.

Anuon tied a bit of cloth around his mouth and nostrils, snorting to find Zobi had beaten him to the punch. Then drawing blades—in this haze, his bow was useless—the three sprinted through the clouded streets towards the nursery.

OoOoOo

As promised, Healer Goira’s feet barely touched ground in her haste to reach the Breeders’ Den. Her duty, it was, to rescue the poor lasses caged therein, and she found herself begging Mahal and all the Valar that there would be enough wits among the abused women that she’d not have to abandon them. The insane she’d simply not have the time or ability to carry from the canyon.

 _Better the swift death coming than leaving them alive here._ At least, ‘twas what Goira hoped. 

But by Mahal, she’d trained to _heal_ the sick. Not to put them out of their misery.

Her love skidded to a halt the instant they reached the Den’s big metal doors. He had some choice comments to make, too, about the cowardly act of the Black Númenóreans in barring the doors, locking the defenseless women inside whilst the city was under attack. Locking the lasses _in,_ not the invaders _out._

Goira could not help but peck him on the cheek. Then pressing hand to the same spot, she said, “My _Sanâzyung.”_ (Perfect/true love). “You’ll turn my head with words like that.”

Kai blushed adorably and cleared his throat, plainly abashed to have used such coarse language before her. Then with a flourish, her love tossed the crossbar aside and opened the door, bowing her inside. 

With mace in one hand and shield in the other, Goira marched into the Breeders’ Den. The days when women were raped and abused under this roof were over. 

The hallway before her was empty, so she jogged down its length, Kai at her back. How the Rangers had wished to aid in this venture—these women were their kindred, albeit distantly—but given what they’d endured, Goira had put her foot down. Only herself and the Khazâd would approach the females. Only those who did not bear resemblance to their abusers. 

“Hear me!” she proclaimed loudly as she exited the hallway into a big room. Goira instantly thanked Mahal she’d never possessed a squeamish belly, for the sight before her would have made a lesser soul vomit. 

By Durin’s bloody ax, the lasses were kept like animals, and by their own kinsmen! Their hair hung in hanks, their feet were bare, and they’d been given naught but threadbare smocks to wear. Why, the garments scarce reached the lassies’ thighs!

Goira’s anger climbed, and Kai, she realized, had presented his back—giving these women a gift that no other male likely had in too many years: privacy. 

Not, she also thought, that many appeared aware enough to realize it. _By the seven dwarf fathers._ Goira walked into the room, noting the cubby-like spaces lining all sides but one. In those cubbies? Wee pallets of straw. No sheets. No pillows, and Goira knew full well why: to forbid the lasses from strangling themselves on them. ‘Twas likely the reason for their thin smocks, too—the fabric was surely too thin to be of any use. 

One lass lived in each cubby. Many sat staring blankly into space, arms close to body and body pressed into the deepest corner of her cage. Some eyed Goira with bafflement, and a couple rose to their feet, one hand to a wall for leverage. 

_Mahal have mercy._ If Goira had any doubts as to the fittingness of Nori’s plan, they were ended. What could be saved from this city would be, but the rest would be destroyed using the last of Finnur’s fire powder. The evil of this valley would be eradicated.

Claiming a place in the center of the room, Goira addressed her charges. “The city is under attack. Your distant kinsmen, the Dunedain, have arrived.”

Mutters arose, and Gloira paused until they subsided. “With them have come the dwarves of Ered Luin. The Black Númenóreans dared to steal a child from one of ours, and we will not let that go unpunished. Mark my words. Today, this city will be no more. You have three choices. You can come with me, and I will arm you so that none can cage you again. My kinsmen and I will give you protection and succor until you decide your future, whether to live as free women in the North or in a cloister of your own making elsewhere.” 

A few dull eyes seemed to brighten. And thank Mahal, a chin or two lifted. 

“Or,” Goira said lightly. “You can run from here and betray us. Try to turn the tide. If we should fail, you will be ensconced back in your cage and used until you die or are disposed of elsewhere.”

One younger woman stepped forward. _Nay, child,_ Goira corrected with another burst of fury, for the redhead beauty could be no more than thirteen or fourteen years of age. “I’m a Weapon,” the lass asserted, her chin high. “Arm me, and I will fight by your side. No one will use me again,” she spat. 

A couple women uttered rousing shouts of agreement.

Then a quiet voice intruded. “And the third choice?”

Goira’s head tilted to one side. Her gaze slid left until she found the speaker. ‘Twas an older woman, one too thin and with graying hair. “Your third choice,” she said, not without kindness, “is to stay here. When we leave, this canyon will cease to exist. The cliffs themselves will fall upon it. If you choose to stay, you die.”

The woman nodded in satisfaction and sat back. “Good. I am weary of this existence.” A short glare speared Goira’s way. “Our children?”

“They are being rescued even now. Should you wish it, they will be returned to you to be raised in the manner of your choosing.”

“And if not?” The young redhead of before asked in a bitter voice. “If we want nothing to do with them?”

“There are others who will take them in,” Goira answered. “Both dwarves and the Dunedain.”

A slow decision. A jerky bob of the head. 

“There are others here?” Goira asked, her demeanor turning brisk. 

“Down the passage is another room like ours. Beyond it lies those already pregnant,” a woman of dark of hair and eyes informed her. The woman’s voice turned hard as she added, “If any of you dare to rush off and tattle to your masters, I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

Aye, and Goira wouldn’t stop her. “Those of you wishing to leave these lands, join my love, Kai. He’ll take you on ahead. The streets will be chaotic. I cannot promise you’ll meet no resistance, but by Mahal, we will get you free.”

A full two-thirds of the lasses stepped nearer to Kai, and when he walked down the hallway to the exit, they followed. 

Two-thirds. 

The rest made themselves comfortable, plainly happier to be awaiting their deaths.

Goira hurried to the next chamber.


	46. What Can Be Salvaged

Ar-Aemazia gnashed his teeth as another of Ar-Kavish’s free climbers came tumbling back to earth. The woman’s body thumped down with a vaguely wet splat. An arrow protruded from her throat.

That was the fourth, and if Kavish wasted one more of their seasoned fighters in the suicidal attempt to scout the enemy, Aemazia intended to intervene. The fighter would remain behind and Kavish would take his place. 

_Just push me,_ he growled at the young lord. 

Aemazia had long since abandoned attempts to use a pet for reconnaissance, the decision aided in large part due to the fact that there were few left to be had. None of his trained stock remained, only wild rodents and birds, and they were not nearly so useful for his purposes. An Arcanist could use them in a pinch, but the information they gleaned was chaotic, most of it jumbled up impressions of their preferred prey. It was luck only that eked anything of import from them.

“Where is Nahlis with those ropes?” Aemazia abruptly snapped. Pointing at a random soldier—he could not see the man’s earrings in the dusty haze—he said, “You. Find her. I want that climbing gear, and I want it now.”

OoOoOo

Hlein found the Slaves Den as empty of Black Númenóreans as anticipated. He didn’t bother with niceties but kicked in the door and walked boldly inside. Then loudly, “Are there yet any brave souls of Rohan or Gondor to be found among you lot? Any ready to go home?”

Silence.

He walked through the Den’s halls, thrusting open doors and making sure all got a good look at him. “I’d heard none could steal the heart from Rohirrim. That Gondor bred men and women of courage.” A pause. “Or did this miscreants steal that from you as well, lock, stock, and barrel?”

He jangled the key-ring stolen just that morning. “Help has arrived. The only help you’ll be seeing. I’ll not lie. Escaping will be dangerous. We may fail. But by Durin, better to go down fighting like men than slaving like whipped dogs. Or is it you prefer this life? Have the Black Númenóreans stolen your spines and your courage along with everything else? Will you choose to remain and live out your lives in service to these misbegotten descendants of wargs?”

Hlein cocked his head one way, then the other. Truly? Aye, he knew their existence was miserably brutal. But none dared hope? None fought back?

“Go away,” at last came from a doorway he’d already passed. A man’s voice, it was, one hollow of strength. “None will risk the altars. Better this than torture.”

Hlein walked towards the doorway from which the voice originated. He’d suspected any men or women with a speck of spirit would have been slain long ago, and Mahal have mercy, it seemed to be true. 

Yet to leave these souls here, even to save others, stuck in his craw bitterly. Nay, he’d not abandon them. They were broken husks of the people they’d once been, but he could not in honor leave them to die with their abusers.

So. He must do this the difficult way. One that would see him painted a villain in their eyes, for sure, but he was not a descendant of Durin for naught. He’d not ruled Kalil Kilmîn over a couple hundred mithril-headed, temperamental dwarrow for more’n a century to be thwarted by these pitiful creatures. 

With a determined stride, he first collected reams of chains and shackles from the front of the Den. Then a bit of fabric.

There was some tussle, there were hateful words and deadly glares, but when Hlein marched out of the Slaves Den fifteen minutes later, ‘twas with a pack of gagged and unresisting slaves trudging in his wake. 

Not the win he’d hoped, but he took it. 

_Mahal, if ye’ve got an ear bent my way, you’d best make sure that eastern pass is unguarded._ His glaze flicked back towards his unhappy charges. _This lot won’t make it, else._

OoOoOo

Glivin stole up to his target, muscles twitching. He’d used that dwarf’s tinted cream to hide his tattoo—reluctantly—but that didn’t mean the rest of House Vinuir wouldn’t know him on sight. Ib-Hokkan might be dead (and good riddance), but Ne-Dovhar and Ne-Sanzinuir would have taken it upon themselves to claim Hokkan’s spot.

Or at least, one of them would have after they’d fought like hyenas for the same piece of meat.

_Not to mention Bovor and Elyhr._ Those two would be itching to hurt someone after Glivin’s Brothers had darted them. Arcanists were not known for letting bygones be bygones. 

_There._ An elated, back-forth look to make sure the coast was clear, and Glivin hurried across a bit of open ground to disappear among a throng of nervous and disorganized Novices waiting for orders. Glivin pushed his way to Vaeh’s side, grabbed her wrist—shushing her when her head whipped around—and pulled her towards the back. 

“Hey,” another young Novice complained. Glivin didn’t know him, so he must have been from another House. 

With a deep breath, Glivin knelt before Vaeh at the back of the throng and whispered, “You’ve got a couple seconds to make up your mind. You staying here to fight for them…” His head jerked towards where Aemazia was handing out orders to the remaining commanders and lords. “…or you want out of this Melkor’s Pit?”

Vaeh’s eye rounded. A couple other Novices sidled nearer, hands on their weapons. 

Glivin scowled at them, daring at them to try it. He was better. He’d taken on Novices twice his size and half again his age and won.

“That’s treason,” one hissed. “They kill you for that.”

Glivin tossed him a toothy smile. “Only if they catch me. See, I know who’s attacking us, and I know what they’ve got planned. They came to save _us,_ see.”

Vaeh’s thumb vanished into her mouth. Around the finger, “De tree men?”

Glivin nodded shortly. “It’s why they’re here. They’re risking their lives for _us.”_

“What do you mean?” another soul asked. 

“You know of any of _them,”_ Glivin spat with another jerk of the head, “as would risk torture for one of us kids? You think they care? They don’t. But, see, Akhora took word to our _other_ people.” He paused for effect. “The Dunedain.”

Gasps. A couple children inched closer. A few reared back. 

“Ib-Akhora brought the Dunedain?” Yet another young Novice joined him. Suspicious, but Glivin expected that.

Glivin nodded. “She’s trying to help us. She’s the one that wore that tattoo and saved a lot of us.”

“She didn’t have a tattoo,” one boy argued.

Glivin met his glare. Then with a smirk, he removed the dwarf’s weird creme-thing from his face, baring his own. “Yeah. She did.” He pressed his point. “You think I’m risking my life for an unsure thing? Do I look stupid?” 

He leaned in, and the others followed suit. “The Dunedain came for us. All the way from up North. When they heard about how we were being treated, they got _mad.”_

That did it for Vaeh. She held open her arms, and Glivin scooped her up. To the others, “I’m giving you the biggest Test of your life. You want to be the hero, or do you want to be like _them?”_

Eyes narrowed. Followed his lead in looking at the nearest adults.

When Glivin spoke again, their eyes returned to him. “See, we think Akhora chose the older Novices she thinks maybe can be better than this. _We_ all know the older Novices she left behind aren’t worth spit. None of us would trust them.”

“I don’t trust no one.”

“Anyone,” another countered.

“Shut up.”

Glivin shoved one, reclaiming their attention. “This is it. You got it? If we help each other, trust each other, we all get out of here.”

“And if not?” one soul asked.

“We fail to escape, we die. Old Aemazia will see to that. But if you stay here, you’re dead anyway when the Dunedain bring the mountains down.” As he’d hoped, that got their attention. “And I’d be willing to bet Aemazia’s already realized it’s a possibility. Didn’t you hear him calling for ropes? He’s getting ready to climb out of here before it happens. It hasn’t even occurred to him they are waiting because of _us.”_

Not that climbing out would be happening. Glivin had snuck into Caeldor before the first explosion to destroy Caeldor’s climbing supplies. He’d done that quite happily. If Aemazia sent people up the cliff walls, it would be without that added safety.

In a lower voice, Glivin continued. “Look who’s missing. The slaves. The babies. You think he’s going to take them _or_ us with him? We’re still kids. We’ll slow them down. We’re not as useful to him. Why do you suppose we’re standing here when the older Novices are all getting instructions over there?”

“What do we do?” a couple asked while others fidgeted, clear as day confused and scared. Those were the ones that worried Glivin. If Aemazia learned that their attackers wouldn’t hurt kids, he’d use the Novices as shields. He wouldn’t hesitate.

“Spread the word. Stop anyone from tattling. In ones and twos, sneak away,” Glivin answered. 

“Where?” Lhiaza, a Weapon two years older than Glivin from House Vinuir, pushed her way to the front. Her curly brown hair was a mess as normal, but her gaze was steady. Glivin had never seen her bother younger kids, so he guessed she was alright. 

“The eastern edge of the canyon. If it’s clear, you’ll find dwarves guarding it. They came with Akhora and the Rangers, so they’re good. I’ll be right back. If we can’t go out the eastern path, we’ll have our own way to climb up.” He hesitated, then said, “They’re not like the Hands and Duumvirate, Lhiaza. The Dunedain? They’re different. The dwarves, too. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a bellyful of being lied to, used, and stalked for fun by people who don’t deserve to breathe.”

Her hand rubbed the pommel of her scimitar. “They came to save us.”

“They did.”

“Akhora brought them.”

“Yeah.”

She seemed uncertain, but then her face cleared and her chin lifted. “You’ll probably get us killed, but I’m with you. I’m not waiting around for Kavish and his cronies to come hunting _me_ to play with.”

Kavish and his cronies? Glivin’s eyebrows flew up. He’d known they were no good, but he hadn’t realized they hunted the girls. Especially from _his_ House. 

_Former House,_ he hastily corrected in his thoughts. 

“I’ll be back,” he promised. With Vaeh’s hand in his, he raced from the scene. He had to get back to where Ragan waited. He had to warn Ragan the rest of the Númenóreans were planning on climbing out. The Rangers and dwarves had known it would probably happen, that or Aemazia would send some to try the eastern exit. 

Glivin hoped Aemazia didn’t think to send Novices to test that pass. He didn’t think his new brothers could blow up a bunch of kids, even kids like Elyhr and Bovor.

Once at the base of the cliff, Glivin whistled sharply for the rope, knowing ears would hear. _Hurry, hurry,_ he willed his… He willed Ragan.

OoOoOo

With the heavy cloak of dust to hide him, Thannor ran boldly through Caeldor’s streets. A time or two, he sensed others moving about like he was, but he didn’t call out, and neither did they. Whether they’d been enemies or other members of the Black Company, he’d never know.

The jangle of metal, however, almost made him pause. Chains? Paired with dozens of heavy footsteps, he concluded he was hearing prisoners, but whose? 

He dismissed it and sped on. He could not take on a troop of Númenóreans. Not by himself, and not when his son’s fate rested in his hands. 

Thannor slowed and altered his gait to one more suitable to stealth as he neared the Seat. From the sounds filling his ears, most of the enemy milled about here. What were they planning? Had Aemazia concocted some unexpected counter to the Black Company’s efforts?

Thannor dashed that line of thinking from existence. It wasted time. 

At the base of the Seat, he sidled up the stairs, leery of the dust-enshrouded outlines of miniature Barad-Durs and the hazier impressions of Black Númenóreans barely visible some eight or nine yards away. He gained the portico undetected, and the Seat’s behemoth doors swam into view. None had been left behind to guard it.

A good sign, but it didn’t mean the prisoners were also unguarded. By Eru Himself, Thannor’s soul wished to charge inside, locate his son, and slay any in his path. 

It wasn’t the worst of ideas, he suddenly thought. If done quietly…

Not permitting himself to think of all that could go wrong—this plan of Nori’s was riddled with weaknesses—he tested the door and found it unlocked. It eased open at his coaxing, and he squeezed inside before sealing it shut. 

Thannor’s eyes swept the room. The Seat was a massive space designed to intimidate. On either side, thick smooth columns reached to the ceiling, and though the city was blanketed in a dust cloud, some dingy brown light made its way in through the slit windows up near the roof. 

Thannor slowly exhaled and moved into the room. Each step was careful and silent until he gained the first column. From there, he peeked around its girth, gratified to see that side of the hall was empty. Another column, another look, and he abandoned caution for haste. He sprinted to the front of the hall where both a dais and the depiction of Numinor’s fall kept court. Just as Saldís had described. 

Thannor hurried through the doorway to the left of the dais, and was instantly at war. The two Black Númenóreans (did the enemy not realize their foes would come for their own?) were caught utterly off guard—one lounged, picking his nails with a dagger, the other had both weapons sheathed, his hands mid-air as if making some grandiose proclamation.

The second, Thannor’s stolen scimitar ended with one hard punch through the chest. The first threw his dagger, and the Ranger ducked backwards, dumping the second’s body.

The two clashed, blades locking. When the Weapon’s other hand moved, Thannor was ready for it, thrusting the other man back and kicking his feet from under him. 

The Weapon rolled backwards, ending once more on his feet with scimitar held in a two-handed grip. 

“You should not have threatened our people,” Thannor growled. “You should never have touched Durin’s folk.”

A flick of the eyes. Confusion. “Traitor.”

“To whom?” Thannor spat. “We are of the line of Elros. We were intended to be so much more than this. Yet here you stand, defending monsters who prey upon children. No, I am no traitor.” His father’s words returned to him, and Thannor said with majesty, “I am Thannor, son of Barhador of the Dunedain. And I have come with my people to see justice done upon you.”

With that, he lunged at the Weapon. The man dodged backwards, knocking over iron candelabras in his wake. Thannor leaped over each. His focus narrowed. 

This Weapon stood between Thannor and his son. The Weapon would die.

OoOoOo

Nahlis watched with stoic face as her handful of Weapons lifted ropes, showing her their ruined remains. All had been hacked to pieces no longer than two feet in length.

 _By the Eye,_ she longed to roar. None had guarded the storage house, for no one had expected ropes to become important. 

Oversights. Mistakes. Divisions. They were the Black Númenóreans, by Sauron’s blasted Eye. The descendants of the kings of old. Yet here they were, thwarted at each turn like blindfolded children playing a game.

With hands balled into fists at her sides, she barked, “To the laundry,” gratified when her people scurried from the room ahead of her. She stomped in their wake.

Some enemy was playing them. Some enemy had _found_ them. The Blue Wizard. Who knew who else. 

Akhora. If that female had remained in reach, Nahlis would have enjoyed strangling the life from her with her bare hands. 

Why? What could have possessed that hardened woman to turn on them? Nahlis could only assume the dwarves had purchased Akhora’s loyalty. It alone made sense.

_You will not live long enough to enjoy your wealth._ Even had they offered her Erebor’s bounty, when Mordor’s tides slammed upon that mountain, it would fall. 

“Lord Nahlis,” one Weapon broached.

Nahlis glared. “Grab the sheets. The blankets. Everything we can use to braid together a rope.”

Meanwhile, she intended to badger Aemazia into granting permission for at least one House to try the eastern exit.

OoOoOo

Swift as an adder, Ragan hauled up the rope, wondering what Glivin…

…not Glivin. Blinking, he finished hauling up the line, surprised to find himself face-to-face with an absolute cherub of a lass with wavy red hair, brown eyes, and a face full of adorable freckles. For a moment, they studied one another.

Her thumb disappeared into her mouth. “Shouldn ‘ou help Gliv’n?” she asked around the appendage.

Ragan shook himself. This mission, he vowed, was an eye-opener, and that was no exaggeration. “Aye, lassie, right you are,” he said, action following words. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Vaeh.”

So small, she looked. So innoc—

“I’m s’posed to dart you,” she said miserably. “Hand Harathar will be mad.”

_Not innocent._ Mahal. 

“I didn’t like it b’fore,” she confessed.

Feeling a weight attach itself to the end of the rope, Ragan hauled it up as swiftly as he could. “Hand Harathar will have to get by me first,” he told her. “You’ll not have to do anything like that ever again.” 

Who, he wondered, had she darted? Another Novice?

Then Glivin was there. Ragan ran a careful eye over the lad, happy to see he was in one piece. 

“I told the youngest Novices,” Glivin rushed, almost tripping over his words. “I don’t know if they believe me, they didn’t know me, most of ‘em, and everyone’s gathered in front of the Seat, and it looks like Aemazia ain’t trying the eastern road out, they’re looking for ropes like we thought, but I cut them all.”

A firm hand on Glivin’s shoulder silenced the lad. “Breathe,” Ragan urged.

Glivin breathed.

“Good lad. You’ve done well this day. We knew yon Númenóreans would likely try to climb out,” Ragan reminded him. “Your actions will slow them down something fierce.”

“They’ll think of something else,” Glivin said.

“Aye, but if they try to climb out, conditions favor us. Take a gander,” Ragan urged, turning the boy around.

Glivin took that gander, and Ragan saw Glivin’s tense shoulders relax an inch or two. “It’s clear as day up here,” Glivin said.

Ragan grunted in agreement. “Aye. They’ll be sheltered for the first three-quarters of their climb by that dust and smoke, but after that, they’re sitting ducks. I’ve already brought down two myself, and unless I’m mistaken, Kyri got one, too.”

“You hurt them?” came Vaeh’s soft voice.

Ragan gingerly set a palm on the top of her head, and smoothed back a lock of red hair with his thumb. “We’ve come to rescue you children, lass. But the rest of them? They can’t be allowed to hurt anyone else.”

“No more altars?” she asked, her voice smaller.

“No more altars. No more Dens. And no more killing.” Then to Glivin, “The other Novices may betray us, lad. It’s a risk we’re taking, and well we know it. We’re gambling most are tired of being used and harmed, but there’s likely to be some as cling to what they know for fear of the unknown. If we die this day, at least we’ll do so trying to save the souls we can.”

Glivin’s head bobbed up and down with nervous energy. “I’ll go back.”

“Lad—”

“No, I will.” The nervous energy vanished as if it’d never been, and Ragan found himself confronted with a hard glare more befitting a battle-hardened man thrice the lad’s age. “I can get the others from House Vinuir for sure. I know them. I know which ones to grab, and I think I’ve got Lhiaza convinced to help me.”

“All of the little ones come with us,” Ragan felt pressed to remind him. Well did they all know the animosity among these kids. One justified, aye, but dangerous to the mission.

Glivin looked ready to argue, then exhaled gustily. He waved one hand. “Alright. I’ll get ‘em all.” A mulish expression. “Some of them, I may have to tie up.”

As if Ragan would argue that. Instead, he gave him a clap on the back and a big grin. “That’s the spirit.”

A snort was the lad’s response.

Ragan began to feed out rope, but Glivin halted him, his dark dark eyes intent. “I had to whistle. Someone could’ve heard. Move down a bit.”

A good thought. The two of them—with little Vaeh trotting behind—scooted eastward along the plateau a good dozen yards before Glivin was satisfied. “Air’s as thick as soup down there, but I’m not taking any chances,” the lad said.

He was already taking too many, Ragan thought soberly. More’n Ragan was happy with. This business of putting children in danger? Ragan liked it none at all. But what choice had they?

The lad descended the rope, and too soon, that white head of hair of his disappeared beneath the blanket of dust. Ragan notched his crossbow, returning to his watch. 

Black Númenóreans. Scalin’ the cliffs en masse. ‘Twas not an image Ragan liked. Aye, he had the high ground and every advantage, but they had the numbers. _If not the ropes,_ a part of him tacked on with a chuckle. 

But by Durin, Ragan hoped Goira’s mission had been successful and the lassies were willing to fight.

The Black Company needed them, the sooner the better.

OoOoOo

The fight had already lasted more than five minutes. _Too long._ Curse it, Thannor could not hope to remain undiscovered forever. At some point, someone would think to use the prisoners against the invaders. When that happened, Thannor’s brief window of opportunity to save his kinsmen would slam shut.

The Ranger could not permit that to occur. 

Thannor lurched backwards, dipping his belly out of reach of the blade whistling a path through the air. A spin, a slam with his scimitar forced his opponent’s to continue on its trajectory with more speed than the Weapon had intended. Thannor’s left boot followed, cracking into the man’s elbow and sending him stumbling away. 

Thannor scooped up the lantern sputtering away in a small recess in the wall and hurled it at the Weapon just as the man recovered enough to charge at him. The result was instantaneous. Oil splashed over the Weapon’s torso and down his legs…oil the flames swiftly pursued. Between one breath and the next, the man was engulfed, and an agonized shout escaped his blackening lips.

_Eru._

All fighting ceased. Thannor’s breaths rasped from him, his heart thundering out a tempo of pity. No one should die in such agony, but the Ranger wasn’t fool enough to forget the crimes these people had committed. They’d brought this on themselves. 

Thannor stepped forward to end it, but the man suddenly lurched towards him, arms spread wide to engulf Thannor in a fiery hug. The Ranger dodged backwards, tripping on items he and his enemy had both thrown to the ground to foil the other during their fight. Thannor kept his footing, barely. 

His foe did not. The Weapon crashed down, and the stench of burning skin flooded the room. 

Thannor swallowed heavily, watching as the man’s body continued to twitch. The Ranger did not again risk nearing the Black Númenórean; instead, he drew a dagger. A careful aim, a flick of the wrist, and the burning body ceased moving. Doubtless it was a mercy this wretch would never have granted another, but Thannor could not continue to watch the man suffer.

A last, pitying glance, and Thannor ran past the corpse, thrusting all thoughts of the Weapon from his mind. The stairwell leading beneath the Seat was exactly where Saldís had said it would be, and Thannor flew down the dark and curving stairs on light feet. At the base, his steps again slowed, his scimitar lifted. 

A peek around the corner revealed a hallway black as night. “Berenor?” he dared whisper. “Himon?”

A low groan answered him. Who, he couldn’t identify. No guards rushed him. The way, he hoped, was clear.

Thannor squatted. With impatient fingers, he yanked free the stays of his bag, dumped it on the ground, and dug through its contents. The candle was swiftly located. The flint… No time. He raced up the stairs and grimly set wick to the Weapon’s smoldering body. With lit candle shielded by one hand, he returned to the floor below. 

Scooping up the bag as he passed it by, he tried again, “Medlinor?”

Another groan answered, this one from another direction.

OoOoOo

Aemazia’s gaze swept among the small army gathered outside the Seat. The dust had abated enough that he could now see the faces of those standing ten feet away. Any farther, and they were lost to the infernal cloud.

All was almost ready. The instant it was, his Arcanists would use their wind skills to blow the entire cloud of dust upward, blinding instead those who wished _them_ blinded. 

But first, a measure of scouting was necessary while his best warriors prepared themselves for the climb. Not in Kavish’s wasteful manner, no, but in one that would not cost Aemazia valuable fighters.

“Lord Sangahyando?” he called. 

She was near, he knew, organizing older Novices into teams to cut and braid the sheets into makeshift ropes…which should not have been necessary. His blood steamed all the more at this latest affront.

Nahlis emerged from the mass of dust to his left and strode to him swiftly. “Lord Aemazia?”

“How goes the progress?” he asked.

Her lips thinned. “Now that they are getting the hang of it, faster.”

“Time?”

Her fingers tapped upon the hilt of her sword. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes and we’ll have one rope completed.”

_Fifteen minutes._ Aemazia considered banging his head against the wall. The city could be destroyed by then. _Actually…_ His brow furrowed. There had been no further destruction that his ears detected. _What else are you doing,_ he asked privately, probing the edges of his mind for clues. 

“Hand Lormor?” Aemazia barked.

The pale, brown haired man stepped closer, the scar on his right cheek red with strain. 

“Select three or four young Novices. The most useless ones that have a chance of climbing these cliffs. I need scouts.”

“Of course.”

“And Hand Lormor?”

The man paused.

Aemazia smiled a wintry smile. “Select ten additional. Order them to march out of the valley using the eastern access point. Tell them if they successfully do that and return with news of our enemy, I’ll ensure they won’t be left behind with the rest when we vacate the city.”

OoOoOo

Young eyes narrowed and whispers flew.

“I told you he was right,” one Novice hissed.

“You didn’t,” another replied.

“Well, I thought it.”

“Doesn’t count,” a third joined in, a girl with wild brown curls. 

“What do we do?” a fourth asked.

The girl rocked upon her heels. “We get out of here. They’re looking to sacrifice someone, and I don’t aim for it to be one of _us._ The Novices of House Vinuir _respectfully_ decline.” With a toss of her hair, she vanished back into the dusty haze.

OoOoOo

Lhiaza silently collected the Novices she’d convinced of Glivin’s words—most of them five, six and seven year old Novices who’d just begun training—and sneaked away. All of them were from House Vinuir, so all of them knew and trusted her.

Unlike the Hands and Lords, _she’d_ never harmed them. 

Each of the seventeen kids clenched his or her scimitar in painfully tight grips, proof of their inexperience. What they lacked in expertise, though, they made up for in sneaking. They were Novices. They’d had ample reason to hone that skill.

“What do you s’pose doorfs are like?” little Auzin asked, his voice hushed as he walked at her side. 

Lhiaza spared him a short glance and a brief smile. “I don’t know. I guess we’re about to find out.” Her lips flattened. She put on a brave face for the younger kids, but inside she feared. _Better a slim chance than none._ That thought alone kept her feet moving to the eastern pass.

OoOoOo

Novice Ohnin hurried back to where the young Novices of his House, House Herumor, clustered. He was mad. Real mad.

All Novices knew they had no real value in the eyes of the Duumvirate until they graduated and completed their final Test, but to be used as fodder like Aemazia intended… 

Ohnin was furious. He was scared. And he intended to do something about it. 

The moment he reached his fellow Novices, he leaned close to one and murmured, “Did you hear? Ar-Aemazia’s decided to use worthless Novices to do his scouting for him. Hand Lormor’s hunting for victims.”

In less than a minute, word had spread throughout Herumor’s Novice ranks, from young to old. When the teenagers heard of it, they laughed before once again turning away to work on their task of constructing rope. 

That was when Ohnin added the other bit, “Did you hear the Dunedain came for us?”

OoOoOo

Word spread like wildfire. Furtive whispers flew among the youngsters, House to House, whispers none of the adults paid attention to in their distraction with larger issues. When Lormor selected the first of his “scouts” from among Berúthiel’s youngest Novices, one by one, others began to disappear. None witnessed it but other youths, and emboldened by the actions of their fellows, they, too, departed.

What started as a trickle ended in an avalanche until the few remaining kids looked around to see they alone remained. Lormor would have to choose them. 

They, too, bolted.

All but three twelve-year-olds from House Sangahyando. The eldest, Ghira, had led the other two, Suzar and Vittri, away from the older Novices with slow steps, steps that took them closer to the Seat, when she overheard something that changed her mind.

“It’s the prisoners,” Aemazia spat suddenly. Through the thinning haze, Ghira could see him whip around to glare at Hand Faruvir, “They dare not destroy the valley while we have their kinsmen. The fools stay their hand for them.”

“Surely they cannot be so sentimental,” Nahlis said.

“Can they not? Why else have the attacks halted. Why is the Blue Wizard silent? Hand Faruvir, gather two senior Novices. Bring me those prisoners.”

That fast, Ghira seized the other two Novices’ arms. “Didn’t the rumors say they were Dunedain?”

“Yeah. So?” Vittri’s bronze faze scrunched with impatience. But then, Vittri’s face always did that. 

Suzar blew a curly lock of blond hair from her freckled face, her head tilting to one side. “We need to go, Ghira.”

Ghira released her hold on them. One hand tapped the hilt of her scimitar. “They came for us,” she said, repeating the words that had ignited hope in them all. She was scared, too, scared to believe the Dunedain were any different, but she’d rather throw in with the Rangers than her own people. _They_ planned to use Novices like Ghira to do what _they_ feared to do. 

The cowards.

“Aemazia just sent for the prisoners. If the Rangers are different, will they really blow the mountain if Aemazia puts a knife to their friends’ throats.”

“Of course they will,” Vittri said, as if anything else was absurd. 

And it was. Any Novice knew not to be sentimental. But… Ghira’s chin lifted. “I’m going to rescue them.”

“You?” Vittri said with ridicule. 

Ghira grabbed his tunic and hauled him close. “Yeah. Me.” Then releasing him, she said, “I once had a baby sister. Did you know that? In the nursery. She was born missing a finger. _One finger,”_ she growled. “And they killed her for it. I don’t care if they think she was defective. _I_ wanted her. I wanted a sister, and they _stole_ her from me.”

A shuddering inhale and Ghira continued, “I did what they told me because I didn’t see a way out. Now I do, and I’m going to make them pay. For Indiya. For throwing Simi into the Den, and Jherin on an altar.”

Not to mention what had been done to Ghira herself, but she locked those words deep inside. 

She took one step towards the Seat, then she froze, heart pounding and eyes wide to see Hand Faruvir had arrived first. Instead of taking older Novices with him, Faruvir had chosen three adults, and they silently filed into the Seat. 

Those prisoner Rangers were going to die. 

“You can’t take them alone,” Vittri said, his dark brown, almond-shaped eyes hard. 

“I know that,” she snapped back.

He gave her his rare, crooked smile. “Good thing we’re coming with you.”


	47. Eh, It Could Still Work

Nori groaned, one hand lifting to bat foul, dust-choked air from his nostrils before his eyes cracked open. Flat on his back, he was, and right miserable with pain. He coughed, and dust plastered itself to the insides of his mouth. 

Not a pleasant taste. 

‘Twas then memory returned. His eyes flew open. The explosion. Flying through the air like a bird robbed of its wings. Crashing down.

Nori prodded his elbows beneath him, propping up his chest. Dirt covered him from beard to boots, and he had a nice shard o’ stone sticking up through his thigh. 

Wounded. Before the fight had really begun. He pawed his beard. Aye, it figured. But if any should ask, by Durin, he’d tell them he’d fought off dozens of the wretched Númenóreans in getting his injury. Finnur would…

Where was Finnur?

Twisting at the waist, grimacing as fiery pain screamed at him for moving the leg accidentally, Nori searched for the other dwarf. Lying on bed of rubble, Nori was, a mound of it reaching high up into the sky and pouring into the Black Númenórean city at an angle. Dust had turned the world hazy, and the ex-thief snorted at that. _Guess we won’t be needing all of Finnur’s smoke birds, will we?_

That part of things, at least, had fallen in their favor.

No help for it. He was going to have to move. Nori forced complaining muscles to pull him upright to a seat. Then with both hands, he gripped the sizable stone shard and wrenched it free. 

Back he flopped, teeth clenched and hands balled into fists as his body told him how much it appreciated that gesture. And by Mahal, it used colorful words. 

He panted through the pain for a handful of heartbeats, then he sat once more. Using his knife, he sliced up his tunic for cloth to use as a bandage.

“Thank Mahal. I thought you dead.”

 _Finnur._ Nori wobbled to his feet and managed an awkward turn, his feet stumbling over rocks. 

“A little help would be appreciated,” Finnur said in a voice laden with frustration. 

Given the inventor was half-buried in the debris, only his chest, head and one arm free, Nori excused himself for snorting. 

“Oi! You think this is funny?” Finnur blustered.

“Lad,” Nori replied as he made his limping way to him. “This would make a fine tale to be spreading over ale someday. But given we’re the pour souls who landed ourselves in this mess, I’m thinking this is a story we’ll take to our graves.”

Finnur stared up at him for one long moment before nodding his head shortly. “Agreed.” With a jerk of his chin, Finnur gestured to the scene behind him. “I’m not thinking we’ll make that climb.”

Nori pursed his lips. In the murky dust plume clogging the air, Nori could see what the inventor meant. Climbing up the shale and debris out of the canyon here would likely end in them sliding down the mound into the city and acquiring a whole collection of bumps and bruises for their trouble. 

Nori rubbed his face before turning in the opposite direction. That fickle lass, Luck, had gone and left them again. They would have to descend into the valley and journey all the blighted way through Caeldor to reach the eastern pass.

And all of it, injuries or no, they’d have to do before the dust completely settled.

OoOoOo

Kai led the first group of lasses through Caeldor’s streets, his staff at the ready and now bearing the spare tip he saved for special occasions: a tip that turned its end into a two-pronged spear. With each step, his heart thundered in his ears, for though these poor lassies would fight if need be, they hadn’t any real weapons yet. For those, they’d need to first dare that eastern path out of the canyon.

His gaze lifted. By Durin, a dwarf could see nothing in this mess. Still, he took comfort. If the enemy had tried to march out the eastern mouth of the canyon, Finnur would have blown it to Eru. That there’d been no such explosion gave him some hope of a safe egress from this vipers’ nest. 

To either side of him, lassies kept pace, albeit they left a wide berth between themselves and Kai. Many of the women had armed themselves with rocks and sticks—anything, really, that could be used to defend oneself. 

‘Twas a silent group, this was. Careful. Kai read easily the training they’d had. Rejected or not, these lassies had all learned to fight, and Kai dared to hope that with a spot of luck, the Black Númenórean curs would soon find reason to bitterly regret the abuse they’d heaped on these women. If ever a soul deserved vengeance, it was these lasses.

“Did that female…” one began in a whisper.

“That is my Goira,” Kai told her with a proud smile.

“Your?” Her steps stopped.

Kai hid the anger and pity the lass’s reaction generated. Instead, he snorted and lightly said, “You could rather say _I_ am _hers._ Same as makes no never mind among my kin.”

Padded steps caught up to him. “She spoke true?”

Kai nodded. “My Goira has no use for lies. She’s a healer, you know. One of our best,” he boasted.

“She wore a mace,” another said.

Kai again nodded. He abandoned his next words as they neared the eastern exit. He readjusted his grip on his staff in preparation. Should any Númenórean appear in the haze, Kai would be on him faster than the flap of a hummingbird’s wings. The women caught his urgency, and they, too, prepared themselves. 

Movement in the murkiness. Bodies. Without hesitation, Kai shouted, _“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”_ and charged at the enemy. With wordless roars of their own, the lassies followed him.

OoOoOo

Zobi changed his mind.

This wasn’t stupid. This was _boring._

The two Rangers had rushed into the nursery, leaving Zobi to protect their backs. Zobi did that…and more. While they were dealing with any guards (Zobi doubted they’d find none), and dealing with the nurses, Zobi prowled the area before the building. He itched for a body to fight.

Anuon reappeared in the doorway, two babies juggled in his arms. No more’n a year old, Zobi figured, and he felt pity for them. They were like him. And Hashad. They ain’t done no one any harm, so they sure didn’t deserve to die down here. 

“Zobi, I have a new favor to ask of you,” Anuon ventured, jostling one of the babies when it began to whimper. 

Something besides standin’ here? “Name it.”

The Ranger gave him a grave nod, one that gave Zobi a thrill of pride ‘cause it was something a grown up would get. “Hashad can’t pull up the nurses. We need to change our plans. Here.” The Ranger shuffled kids to hold out one of Finnur’s metal birds. “It’s one of the smokers. Take it.”

Really? Zobi snatched it up, a smile tugging his lips. 

“Don’t waste it,” the Ranger cautioned.

“I won’t,” Zobi growled, his chin lifting.

“You may have to use it. I need you to check out the eastern path. See if it is clear for us and the babies, okay?”

Zobi’s head bobbed.

“And Zobi?”

He halted and looked over one shoulder.

“If we have control of it, tell whomever is there that we’ll need help here. There are more babies than we’d anticipated.”

“They always breed tons,” Zobi offered. “Those as are weak don’t survive.”

For some reason, the Ranger’s face hardened. Then his eyes closed and Anuon exhaled slowly. “Take word, okay?”

Zobi sprinted away. If the path wasn’t open, he wondered if he could help it get that way. 

He did, after all, have the smoke thing in his hands.

OoOoOo

The instant Finnin heard the Khazâd battle cry, he charged down the path with ax in hand. Madness to fight in the morass here, but there was no choice.

He gave no cry of his own. Instead, he slammed into the Black Númenóreans’ rear lines, ax flying. 

Blood sprayed left and right. Finnin swung his ax in a mighty circle overhead, all his strength thrown into the stroke. Someone landed a hit on him—he knew not from where or who it was. The stiffened leather of the scabbard at his hip muted it, sparing him from a debilitating wound. 

Finnin kicked towards the blade’s origin, pleased to hear something crunch. 

It was then a blast of air came up from the ground (the ground?), blowing his beard upwards. The odd assault made perfect sense as the area cleared of dirt. All snapped into perfect clarity, including the Arcanist with glowing blue hands, his Eye pendant lifted high.

Or it was. The man had no time to do more than boggle, regret for his hasty decision appearing on his face, before a scantily-clad woman with blood on her lips and nails smashed a hunk of stone into his skull from behind. The fool died instantly. 

As did many others. The women attacked as if they’d naught to lose…and they hadn’t, he thought both bleakly and angrily. Facing men with blades and whips, they attacked like animals, and behind them, a pale Kai followed, his staff-turned-spear making short shift of their foes whilst they were distracted. 

It took all of three minutes, Finnin thought with shock. Three minutes, and a full half of the lassies were dead or on their way there fast. The others comforted them and thanked them, calling one another sister. 

_Mahal._ Tears pricked his eyes. 

_Cry for those needing it,_ he thought to himself. These lassies? They were survivors like his Saldís. And by Durin, he’d get them armed and positioned so that they could drink their fill of vengeance if they so chose.

One forward step claimed their attention. Before the dust could completely settle and blind them again, he said, “Finnin, son of Finnar and the valiant Nísi, at your service. By show of hands, how many of you fine lassies would like to get your hands on a weapon?”

All of them flew upwards.

OoOoOo

Glivin slipped around bushes and obstacles, so relieved at what he found that his knees knocked together. All the younger Novices were gone, all but the four Hand Lormor had lined up before Ar-Aemazia. Glivin had done what Ragan had asked—he’d saved the kids.

All but those four. He tugged upon one earlobe, unconsciously mimicking Ragan, and frowned. What were Lormor and Aemazia doing with them?

Glivin didn’t like it. Ragan had said to save the kids— _all_ of them—and if there was one thing Glivin wouldn’t do, it was let that dwarf down. He had to get those Novices free. Somehow. 

_I can do it,_ he assured himself nervously. He was small. Fast. 

Not giving himself time to chicken out, he slipped his blowpipe from his pocket and palmed a handful of darts. Then on quiet feet, he padded closer for a better shot.

“…you mean gone?” Ar-Kavish barked. The scrawny-looking lord with the freakish neck turned one way, then another. Then without warning, he lifted both hands and an unnatural wind blew every bit of dust up into the air above their heads. 

There Glivin stood, exposed as day, along with the entire stone courtyard before the Seat, a courtyard barren of any kids younger than fourteen. Before Lormor could do more than spot him, Glivin attacked with his darts. _Thp, thp, thp._

One at a time, they flew, the first hitting Kavish in the throat. The lord gaped, grabbed his mutant neck and toppled. The second dart burst into flame mid-flight, entirely failing to reach Aemazia. The third hit Lormor. 

Dust began to settle once more.

Glivin had time for one huge shout, _“Run!”_ to the four Novices before he turned tail and followed his own advice. A bush to his left exploded into flames as a fireball slammed into it, and Glivin discovered his feet had new speed.

Glivin really, really hoped the other four Novices had run. If not, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

OoOoOo

Ar-Aemazia ripped open vial after vial, swallowing their contents down in single gulps. Power flooded his veins. Frothing anger burned away any thoughts of moderating his response. The youngest Novices were gone, stolen by enemies. Stolen! From him!

Oh, they would pay. The enemy, yes, but first that boy. Aemazia had seen the rune the ungrateful wretch had put on his face—proof of his betrayal. The brat would be an example. Aemazia would preserve his body for all time, a reminder to future generations of the price of turning on their own.

Novices were the property of the Duumvirate, did they not understand that simple concept? With Tagan gone, that made them _his._

With uplifted hands, he copied Kavish’s efforts, sending huge gales of dust flying upwards into the air. His eyes glared in every direction. “You can run, traitor. But you cannot hide.” A sharp look to Ar-Nahlis. “Kavish?”

The kneeling woman’s fingers left Kavish’s throat. “Dead, my lord. As is Lormor.”

That child had murdered both Hand and Lord. _Poison._ Aemasia spat out an epithet. “Enough of this. Form ranks, Nahlis. Lead our people through that pass. Arcanists, drink every vial in your possession. Destroy everything in your path. We are done here.” He marched forward, strides steady. With the wealth of power fueling him, he thrust the dust cloud utterly free of the canyon, baring all to his sight. 

What he saw snapped the last shred of reason from within in. No army above. No Blue Wizard waiting. He had been _tricked._

A wave of his hand, and every palm tree in the vicinity went up like a torch, bole and palms both. If he had to burn the child out, he would. 

_There is no place you can hide, whelp._

OoOoOo

Himon was dead.

Thannor threw up when he discovered it. His friend had died after suffering such atrocities that there was not one place on the lanky man’s body that was not oozing with sores and burns. 

Only monsters were capable of such debauchery. That men would do this to men… _Eru._ Thannor had to get his son and daughter away from this accursed people. Worry for both climbed to new levels, stripping his mouth of moisture.

Medlinor had been flayed. He lived, but the flesh on his back from nape to buttocks was in ribbons, the bloody mess left to open air without the benefit of a single bandage. 

Thalon, when Thannor next reached the door behind which the big Ranger was held, was stripped, his clothes discarded not far from him. The dark-haired man’s torso was mottled with ugly bruises and welts. He was so still, Thannor feared the worst.

Squatting, Thannor pressed a palm to the younger Ranger’s shoulder, and his breath hitched as he witnessed the rise and fall of the man’s chest. _Alive. Thank Eru._

“Th’nor,” Thalon wheezed, and his dark eyes cracked open. “Y.. Sh’dnt..be..h’r.”

“Can you travel?” Thannor asked, dreading the answer.

“Brok’n…ribs, I th’nk,” Thalon managed. “Give…me…m’nute.” The muscles roping the larger man’s neck and torso tensed. With a low moan, Thalon pushed himself to a seat. “Himon?”

Thannor rose to his feet. “Dead.”

Thalon’s head whipped up, then the man grimaced in pain.

“Medlinor lives, but he won’t be leaving under his own power. Here.” Thannor set a dagger down beside his friend’s hand. “I need to check on the others.”

He glimpsed Thalon’s weak bob of the head, heard the scrape as his kinsman took up the dagger, but then Thannor was out the door, sprinting to the next one. He had his hand on the latch when the black dread he’d learned to associate with Arcanists at work overshadowed him. 

_By the Valar._ The wrongness was worse than anything he’d felt heretofore, and that had his eyes flying up towards the ceiling.  
Something had changed. Aemazia had decided on a plan of action, and Thannor could not help but fear what it might be. The Black Company could not withstand the unleashed fury of all Caeldor’s Arcanists. Not for long, if at all.

 _Please,_ he begged the Valar. For Yahzin. For the children. For Thannor’s wife. Eru knew what losing himself and Berenor both would do to her.

That was when the other shoe dropped. An unfamiliar voice intruded, “Look what we have here.”

There was no time to think, only react. Thannor dropped his candle, allowing it to sputter and roll, tossing its light about in unpredictable waves. Drawing his second sword, he charged. 

_Four of them._ In the shadows, he could not be sure if they were Arcanists or Weapons, but if there was any mercy from above, he begged for Weapons. Four against one was dire enough.

They clashed in the limited space, and Thannor danced about, never still in an effort to dodge blades slashing at him. His eyes flared when he realized Hand Faruvir was among his foes. As his cousin doubtless would have growled, _Orc spit._

He parried with his left blade, wildly slamming sharp points away from vital organs while permitting less serious injuries as his right scimitar sought weak points in his foes’ defenses…and there were few to be found with four pressing him.

Thannor retreated one step, then two. Measured. Reluctant. Behind him, in one of those rooms, lay his son. His firstborn. His precious, precious boy who would vehemently deny that label if he heard it. Berenor was a man, true enough, but he’d always be Thannor’s child.

A sudden gasp, and one of Thannor’s attackers fell, his lips parted in a silent scream. Then a second fell as the first before either attackers or defender could react. 

Suddenly, Thannor found himself surrounded by three children—a boy with straight, midnight-hued hair and bronzed skin; a girl with curly blond locks brushing her shoulders; and a girl with brown hair tightly contained in a braid that fell to her lower back. Two brandished scimitars dripping with blood, the the blond girl flicked a whip by her side, her other hand holding a two-pronged dagger Thannor had only heard described by Saldís: a sword-breaker.

“What is this?” Faruvir growled. “What do you think you are doing, Novice?”

“We’re changing sides,” the boy replied. 

“You will _never_ touch me again,” the brown-haired girl added. “Touch _any_ of us. I am going to kill you.”

Eru. Thannor tried to grab her shoulder, to pull her behind him, but she shrugged him off with an almost feral snarl. Then with a shout, the brunette girl-child charged. 

“No!” Thannor lunged in her wake. The other kids yelled, “Ghira!” and jumped into the fray. 

_By the Valar._ It was chaos. Blades flashed, blood sprayed. Thannor was hard pressed to keep his thrusts and sweeps out of the Novices’ way. A foot must have kicked the candle and sent it spinning, for the light flew through the hallway in circles, confusing the mind. To Thannor, it felt like the floor spun beneath his feet. 

Faruvir dropped. Dead or injured, Thannor could not ascertain—he was too busy trying to take down the last Númenórean. There seemed to be fewer little ones in the fray, too, and his heart ached. _Not the children._

Thannor was pressing against the last fighter, driving him into retreat, when a large body appeared behind the Weapon. A flash of fear, a firming of resolution. Thannor adjusted his grip on his right sword. A new foe? He, too, would fall, Thannor vowed.

But the newcomer’s short blade thrust through the other Black Númenórean’s neck. When the blade jerked free, the man dropped bonelessly, leaving Thannor staring at a partially-clad Thalon. The other man must have been struggling into his clothes when the enemy had discovered Thannor, for is pants were unbuttoned and he had but one arm in his tunic.

“Eru save us,” Thalon gasped. He slumped against one wall, free hand to his unclothed belly. 

Thannor rushed to where Hand Faruvir had fallen. There, he dropped one sword and bent to his knee, free hand reaching to yank the Hand’s body off of the brunette Novice. 

What he found shredded his heart. She’d killed the Hand as she’d threatened, but in the end, the Hand had taken her with him.

“She’s gone,” the boy said, his dark-complected face twisted into lines of bitterness. Then accusatory, “It’s _your_ fault.”

The blond girl’s face twisted in disagreement, but it was the boy Thannor addressed. “I know,” he said simply. Bleakly. “I would have shielded her had she let me.”

Neither Novice cried. They stood with unified stiffness. “You can’t do anything for her,” the girl said with a hint of scorn. “She’s gone. She doesn’t care.”

“So are friends of mine,” Thannor said. He, too, stood. “I am Thannor of the Dunedain,” he told them with a short bow. “I am in your debt.”

The two exchanged brief looks. Then the girl said, “I was told your people came here. For us.”

“We did.” Quiet words spoken as if to adults, for they were not children, not truly.

That seemed to satisfy them. The boy cleared his throat. “She,” he said, gesturing with one foot to the fallen girl, “said we should help you since you came for us.” His shoulders firmed. “So we’ll do that.”

 _Thank you._ Inadequate words. How these children gave him hope, not just for Saldís with the other Novices, or the children outside on Caeldor’s streets, but for mankind. For those of their lineage. 

Thannor directed one Novice to haunt the hallways near the stairs as lookout, and the boy claimed that duty with marked relief. If Thannor were to guess, he’d say the child was desperate to avoid thinking about the loss of his friend…if any Novice even dared to use that label.

The other Novice (“Suzar,” she identified herself when he asked. “And that’s Vittri”) helped Thannor to check the last few rooms, and it was behind the first door that Thannor received his first bit of good news. 

Orodon sat with legs folded, tailor-style, along the back wall of his cell, his body covered in scrapes and dried blood, but nothing worse. The instant the door opened, he stood. “Thannor,” he said, eyes widening.

“Himon is dead,” he told him shortly. “Can you look on Medlinor? Suzar, here, will take you to him.” He tossed the rakish-looking Ranger a bundle of bandages and almost smiled to see how Suzar tripped over her feet in her effort not to gape at the other Ranger. 

Alone, Thannor tried the next door. Empty.

Another. Empty. 

And another. He threw them all open with rising panic until none were left. His son and Calenor were not here.

“Who’re you looking for?” came Suzar’s voice.

“My son,” Thannor managed, a roaring in his ears. “His friend.”

Suzar nibbled on her lip, nervously shifting her weight between her feet.

“Do you know something?” he pressed.

She exhaled in a rush. “I was eavesdropping on Ar-Nahlis,” she explained, her voice apologetic. “We all do it when we can.” 

“And?” He stepped nearer. “Please. If you know anything, you must tell me.”

Her tongue touched her upper lip. “I heard her talking to Ib-Lohrzor. He’s one of our—”

“I know who the commander is,” Thannor interrupted, not unkindly.

“Well, Ar-Aemazia didn’t really trust Ib-Akhora.” An expressive roll of the eyes. “Guess he had reason. Anyway,” she hastily resumed, “he had Ib-Lohrzor take the other two prisoners to Mordor.”

The ground vanished from beneath Thannor’s feet. Berenor and Calenor in Mordor? _Without_ Saldís?

OoOoOo

The instant the blanket of dust jettisoned itself from the canyon, Ragan shouted, “Down!” to the twenty-three scandalously clad lassies sharing the cliff with him. Each had been armed from the Rangers’ stolen cache.

 _Mahal._ His heart pounded out a frantic tempo. The Company had known the blighted Arcanists could do this, but they’d counted on them _not_ doing so for fear of the wizard they _should_ have believed remained above them.

From across the chasm, Kyri and more women likewise lay on their bellies, hiding from detection. The second group of Goira and Kai’s lasses, Ragan assumed, as Ragan’s group comprised the first of them. 

_Where are the pregnant ones?_ Healer and silversmith had ventured back into the city for them.

When naught else happened, he scrambled nearer the edge of the cliff to look down. A few feet away, a lassie did the same. “He’s detected your ruse,” she said, fixing a bolt into her crossbow. “We’ll need to fight.” 

From behind, Vaeh whimpered. Ragan tossed the woman a hard look for scaring the child, then over his shoulder his said, “Vaeh? Don’t you be crying, sweetheart. That hole I showed you earlier? You go hide there. No one’s going to hurt you.”

The wee one never took her thumb from her mouth as she hurried away. In seconds, she’d freed up the canvas that had hidden Ragan and his friends but…hours? days? before. She disappeared inside. 

One of the women from the Den returned the canvas to its previous position and dusted it with sand, concealing it once more. 

The first lass, a mature black-haired woman, said, “The pregnant women are there.” A slender finger pointed him in the right direction. Sure enough, there were Kai and Goira with over thirty women, some slender as reeds, others fat with pregnancy. 

And behind them, two streets over? Ar-Nahlis was leading an army in their direction, the front lines filled with Arcanists wearing their foul pendants.

The Company had to leave the canyon. Now. There was no time to waste. 

_Where is…?_ His heart stuttered to see Glivin down there, running pell-mell with a bunch of other young kids. With the dust removed, they were in imminent danger of being spotted, that despite Glivin’s attempts to keep obstacles between themselves and the army.

But the obstacles seemed bent on spontaneously combusting, leaving the young ones with fewer and fewer barriers to hide them. Ragan rubbed his face. Behind the army, much of Caeldor burned. 

Ragan winced as one of the children with Glivin tripped over a clay pot that had no business, to Ragan’s mind, of being there. The other children paused, aided the other to his feet. More mistakes like that, and the lot of them would be found.

Including Glivin. 

_That, your uncle Ragan won’t be permitting, lad,_ Ragan thought. Without hesitation, he stowed away his crossbow and bolts and grabbed his big war hammer. “Ladies, if you’ll be excusing me, that lad down there belongs to me. I’m going after him.”

A fair bit of murmuring, that generated, and a handful of respectful nods. 

“Stay to the streets on this side of the canyon,” the black-haired lady said. “We’ll cover you.” 

That was right generous of them. Ragan saluted and withdrew from the canyon edge. Once confident none would see him, he stood tall and ran.

OoOoOo

“You know, a dwarf might think the enemy heard us coming and ran for their lives,” Nori commented, “but I’m doubting that happened.”

Finnur grunted lowly. Making their slow way eastward through the burning city, they were, each armed and taking care with his steps. “There’s no one up top to blow the canyon,” Finnur said. “Unless these fools set the explosives off themselves by burning all the trees.”

Aye. A concern, for sure, for the heat radiating off trees and buildings was terrific. Both dwarves were drenched in sweat. 

Nori ignored the persistent throb of his damaged leg as he limped along and chewed upon a ragged edge of his mustache. If’n the Arcanists didn’t set off Finnur’s toys with their flaming tantrum, a dwarf couldn’t forget that none of the Black Company knew Nori and Finnur were down here. If’n all went according to plan—not that _that_ appeared to have happened—and their own friends ignited the fuses, they’d blow the cliff sides and bury Nori and Finnur in Mahal’s lap, all unknowing-like. 

Of stone and earth he was, but Nori still preferred not to meet his end that way. 

Not to mention, there was Saldís. _Umral, I’ve made a fair mess o’ things,_ he confessed to Bifur in his mind. _And your daughter has once again been stolen away from Khazâd protection. Now would be a good time for you to ride in with a couple hundred Swan Knights. If’n it wouldn’t be too difficult a favor._

In unspoken agreement, the two dwarves picked up the pace. Caeldor had become a death trap neither intended to inhabit a second longer than necessary.

‘Twas when they neared the Seat that they saw them: Thannor, with Medlinor’s bloody body draped over one shoulder, along with Orodon, Thalon and two armed children. Nori nudged Finnur before that hasty Firebeard blood of his prodded the inventor into unwise volume.  
Just because the area looked clear of the enemy didn’t mean it was.

Nori and Finnur sprinted to join their fellows. The children saw them first and must have alerted the others, for ‘twas with relief they were greeted. To Nori’s approval, he and Finnur had caught the lot of them finishing dousing themselves in water from a nearby cistern. Given the city’s condition, a sensible precaution for the less-hardy men.

“Master Nori,” Thannor pounced first, interrupting Orodon’s words of welcome. “What are you doing here?”

Nori shook his head. “Stories later. If the heat down here grows too great, those Arcanists will bring the mountains down on our heads whether we wish it or no.”

Almost in unison, heads whipped upwards then returned to the dwarves. “A nice city, indeed. But let’s end this tour,” Orodon sallied, winking at the children and receiving one scowl and one blush. More seriously, he added, “The Black Númenóreans are marching on the eastern end of the canyon, burning much of the city on their way. Their Arcanists have emptied their vials.”

Nori felt ill. How powerful would that make the sorcerers?

“If we don’t beat them to the pass…” Orodon splayed his hands.

“What are we wasting time here for?” Finnur burst. He stomped right up to Thannor and held out his arms. “Give him to me.”

“Master Dwarf,” Thannor began.

“I’m stronger, laddie.” Finnur’s fingers flexed demandingly, his arms not dropping. “Give over.”

The Ranger reluctantly handed over his kinsman. “Very well. Take care with his back, Master Finnur. He was near skinned alive.”

Finnur nodded somberly. “I’ll be careful, never fear.”

Relieved of his burden, Thannor gestured Orodon into the lead, and when Thalon shambled painfully behind, Nori scooped the big man up without so much as a by-your-leave. If speed was of the essence, speed was what they would have. Nori’s leg would just have to keep working whether it liked it or not.

‘Twas not the most balanced of situations, and like as not he looked ridiculous given their differences in statures, but Nori ran after his friends, ignoring Thalon’s words of complaint. 

Thannor fell in beside Nori, his bow appearing in his hands and arrow notched. “Keep to the side street,” the Ranger hissed to Orodon. “And if any of you have the Valar’s ear, I suggest you pray.”

OoOoOo

Finnin stood tall on the heights above the eastern exit from Caeldor, spyglass to his eye. His jaw ached for all the clenching it’d been doing, and fate seemed bent on keeping it that way.

 _Mahal._ Ragan had rushed past, words of explanation raining down in his wake. Enough of them had reached Finnin that the warrior had caught their gist: Ragan rushed to save the lad, Glivin.

Finnin wished naught more than to run into battle with his friend to save the child Ragan had taken a liking to, but duty trapped him here. Until Finnur arrived (he refused to consider that his brother wouldn’t…or couldn’t), Finnin guarded the fuse that would demolish this passage out of the canyon, for it would in turn take the rest of the canyon with it, linked as it was by wee fuses to a series of explosives.

Aye, with this fuse, Finnin could destroy the canyon. _If_ there was aught left of it once the Arcanists were done. 

His eyeglass moved, searching out a diminutive form, and he found it. Zobi bolted back towards the nursery, a squat building one street over from the canyon’s northern side and three hundred yards from Finnin’s position. 

When the lad had arrived, breathless, to find out if the way was clear, Finnin had given him the terrible news to pass on: the enemy marched. Aye, the passage was clear, but Finnin would have to blow it within another ten, fifteen minutes depending on whether the lassies from the Den that now lined the cliffs could slow the army’s march.

Well equipped with crossbows and bolts, the lassies were, and the sturdy weapons gave them decent range. _But as soon as they fire, those Arcanists will be targeting them._ His teeth clenched down in yet another grind. 

By Durin’s mighty ax, Finnin hated this enemy. He’d seen what they’d done to the slaves when Hlein had all but dragged them forth, chained wrist to wrist. The dwarflord had muttered as he’d passed, “A more broken lot, I’ve never seen,” before heading north. 

If all went wrong, like as not the distance Hlein and the slaves gained would avail them naught, but it was not as if Hlein could stable the gang of angry and fearful men and women here. Not when they preferred their slavery to fighting for freedom.

“Hurry,” he murmured as Zobi leaped up the stairs to the nursery and vanished inside. Finnin’s spyglass moved, next homing in on the lines of Black Númenóreans. Whether they intended it or not, they herded the remaining child Novices before them. Some of those terrified souls had raced by Finnin’s position. Whether they heeded Finnin’s directions to Dol Hamoth, he didn’t know. 

Rounding those children up when all was done would not be easy if they decided not to trust the Company. _At least they are out of immediate danger._ It was the truth. 

For most, that is. Some Novices still scurried about helplessly down below. Glivin had encountered more than one group, and they now followed the lad like wee puppies. A few stumbled upon the ropes left by Kyri and Hashad and had availed themselves of that escape. Each was assisted from the rope when they reached the top. 

But some, Finnin feared, wouldn’t be reached. Confused by the Arcanists’ black smoke and frightened out of their wits, they bolted first in one direction, then another. Not many, thank Mahal, but by Durin, he should be down there! To stay and watch…

Finnin took a shuddering inhale. 

Still nearer the enemy marched. He could hear the cadence of their footsteps now.

OoOoOo

Goira trailed behind her last group of lassies, those carrying the seed of the men who had raped them. Like their predecessors, these too were denied the dignity of more than a wee, skimpy tunic. Three or four were so early into their pregnancies that their bellies were as smooth as a teenager’s. Others, six of them, walked with difficulty, hands to backs and abdomens.

The thunder of footsteps hurried them on, the cadence intentional, Goira was sure. Black Númenóreans had ever before walked with the accursed silent grace of the elves. For so heavy a sound as shook the ground beneath her feet, they must be stomping. 

“Hurry,” she encouraged one struggling mother-to-be. “We must hurry.”

A glance over her shoulder. The street remained clear. The thunderous noise of the enemy’s approach neared ever more, unnerving the dwarrowmaid. So close, they sounded, but from which direction? She could not ascertain with the way sound bounced around in this Durin-curse-it valley. 

‘Twas then it happened. The _thwap_ of a bow registered just as one of the Breeders toppled and fell. Goira abandoned the woman at her side, intent on reaching the injured soul, but Kai was there. Her Kai lifted her high, kissed her soundly, then _threw_ her eastward among the less burdened women. 

“Get them out!” he hollered. “Out, _Gehyith!_ (Young dove) Take my love with you, my beautiful lass, but get these women out.”

What? _No._

As lines and lines of Black Númenóreans came into view, Kai planted himself in the center of the street, guarding their flanks. Her handsome silversmith. Her poet and love. 

“Go!” he roared. In that moment, he was transformed. Gone was the gentle soul, replaced by the fierce dwarf warrior of lore.

Feminine arms surrounded her. Feminine arms coxed her into a run. The last sight she had of her Kai was of the dwarf lifting his spear-tipped staff into the air. _“M’imnu Durin!”_ (In Durin’s name!)

Then, he charged.

OoOoOo

Nori heard the Khuzdul shout, one followed immediately by a wrenching, _“Nay!”_ from the heights overhead.

The rope the stragglers had stumbled upon danced as a body slid downward, one followed almost immediately by one scarcely-clad but armed lassie, then two, then three… Nori stopped counting as Kyri landed painfully, his eyes wild. 

“Kyri?” Nori demanded. 

“Kai is taking on the army,” the sculptor snarled wildly, shaking off Orodon’s hold. 

“What? Why?” Finnur burst.

“Because he’s giving the pregnant ladies a chance to run!” Kyri threw over his shoulder, his big mace held before him. The warrior women kept with him, not a one hesitating. 

_Mahal._ “Finnur,” Nori snapped, setting Thalon down and urging Finnur to do the same with Medlinor. “Go, lad. If’n you’ve got any tricks left, now’s the time to unleash them. Go! But _be careful,_ you daft Firebeard!”

Finnin, Nori thought, was going to kill him if they all survived this. Finnur, curse his red beard, broke into a huge grin, plainly thirsty for a chance to battle the enemy directly. 

“I said _be careful!”_ Nori doubted Finnur heard him, and Orodon either as the Ranger rushed headlong into peril. _At least Finnur’s got enough wits left to give Orodon a blade._ Firebeards were known to lose their heads to battle lust, and though Finnin had claimed the two to have just a “smattering” of that bloodline, Nori fretted. A berserker Firebeard this day would be a dead Firebeard.

After a couple more lassies slid down the rope, Thalon tied Medlinor to its end and yanked on it hard. Lassies overhead hauled the unconscious Ranger up the cliff’s rough edge. 

“Get these children up next,” Thannor commanded Thalon with a hard finger. Then to the Novices in question, “No arguments. I’m not losing any more of you. When that rope returns, you _get on it.”_

Both nodded hurriedly.

A silent exchange passed between dwarf and Ranger. A sharing of wordless frustration and fear of a suspected end. Then freeing their weapons, Nori and Thannor ran towards the enemy.

 _If I manage to live through this,_ Nori promised himself, _Dori will **never** be hearing the full o’ things. Never. _

OoOoOo

From his vantage point, Finnin’s heart died a thousand deaths. He witnessed scores of abused lasses rise to their feet upon the cliffs above, crossbows in hands. With elvish grace, they unleashed their fury, cutting down fighter after fighter within the Black Númenórean army.

Kai finished his charge, by some miracle still alive as his clothes burned even whilst his staff slammed through the enemy’s front lines, its two-pronged edge tearing the guts from those so confident the dwarf would never reach them that they failed to take a simple step backwards. Behind him, Rangers, lassies, and dwarves poured onto the same street, their feet slipping and sliding with little control as their feet encountered the same ice Kai had overcome.

 _Finnur._ Finnin’s clasp on the spyglass turned brutal. His brother was a beacon in his blasted yellow coat. “Get your sorry self out of there,” Finnin bit out, knowing his brother couldn’t hear him, knowing if he could, Finnur still would not retreat. Finnin’s throat tightened with anticipatory tears. His heart hollowed out, each thump suddenly empty and painful. 

He barely noted when the pregnant lassies’ trajectory changed, when they scooped up babes and toddlers before rushing straight down the street leading out of Caeldor, Goira at their rear. He barely registered Anuon and Glinor— _Mahal, Zobi!_ —racing towards the fight to give children and pregnant women more time. 

Was that Hashad screaming Zobi’s name as if the soul had been ripped from his living body? Finnin didn’t know. He could scarce breathe. All he could do was watch a yellow coat.

He prayed. By Mahal, he prayed with every fiber of his being. 

All the while, he wished desperately for his Saldís’s arms around him. Or better, that the twain of them could lift weapons and rush down there, too.

OoOoOo

When they arrived on the scene, it was to heartache. Glinor noted a body, a dwarf’s body, lying feet from where Ar-Nahlis stood. The heavy march he’d heard for what felt forever had halted as what must have been Goira’s freed Breeders shot bolt after bolt into the army filling the street, both from street level and from above. Glinor sensed more than saw when Anuon shimmied up a tree and leaped onto a rooftop. Soon, Anuon’s arrows joined the women’s.

The rest of the Company drew the enemy’s fire. Thannor. Orodon. Nori. Finnur. Each did what damage he could, darting near the enemy, then dodging and weaving for his life—for with each attempt, Glinor’s brave companions took their own lives in their hands, gaining at great cost the gift of time. 

Time for the pregnant women and the nurses and babies to evacuate the city. Time for a few stragglers among the youngest Novices to sneak by the army, then bolt for the eastern pass. 

Another small body joined their efforts, one with a blowpipe lifted to his lips. Glinor bit back a horrified, _“Zobi!”_ It was too late to stop the boy, and his blowpipe skills proved to have tremendous accuracy. What he aimed for, he hit, and Arcanists fell to him in steady numbers. 

The Arcanists were a nightmare. There were too many of them, and of those, the majority were the teens Saldís had not taken with her north. The teen terrors’ volleys flew up at the women showering them with bolts, flaming projectiles of molten fire, icy boulders that froze the landscape they impacted in a way Glinor had never imagined, and blue bits of light that seemed to rob victims of breath.

Screams filled the air. One, then two women fell lifeless from the cliffs. Blood ran through the streets. 

Glinor’s jaw set. _So be it._ If they were to die, they would die together in a blaze of glory. For those even now escaping this accursed city. For Aragorn, and Gondor, and all of Middle Earth.

He yanked the first of his remaining birds from his pocket and let it fly into the enemy’s midst, not bothering to aim except to ensure it flew at the Valar-cursed Númenóreans. The second, he was winding up, not even bothering to see if it was explosive or smoke bird when a boom broke up the Númenóreans’ cool efficiency. A puff of smoke rose up near the middle of their forces, and from his vantage point, it appeared a hole appeared in center of the enemy’s forces. 

_Good._ Even better, Númenóreans elsewhere lost a second of concentration, their heads flying backwards as they tried to find the source of this new assault and yet still defend themselves from the attacks above and below.

One after the other, the little birds flew, filling the streets with clouds of smoke and burst-like explosions. More holes appeared in the Númenórean ranks even as Glinor saw Thannor go down with a blue cloud around his head. _It's suffocating him! Eru…_

But Glivin was suddenly there, a blowpipe to his lips and a bunch of kids behind him. The tow-headed boy located the Arcanist before Glinor could, and both his dart and an arrow from Anuon killed the Arcanist on the spot. Thannor fought to his knees, wheezing for breath.

Glivin threw his fist in the air, his victory dance aborted when Ragan appeared, swept the boy into his arms, growled something too low for Glinor to hear at the other Novices, and ran for Finnin and the hope of safety. 

Glinor was sending off the last bird, intending to reach for his bow, when suddenly Finnur emerged from the bird-induced smoke and waved him off. Both of the inventor’s hands lifted over his head in an urgent shooing motion.

 _Good enough._ He released the bird, spun on a heel, and ran.

OoOoOo

Finnin’s heart leaped into his throat as Ragan and the children ran up the path to the desert’s elevation not a minute behind the last of the pregnant lassies and Goira. The healer had led the lassies a safe distance away, where she halted and began to see to the injuries among them. With tears dampening her cheeks, the dwarrowmaid tended to others first.

 _Kai, that’s one fine lass you won._ Finnin stifled his own sob to imagine the loss the lass faced. If it had been him, and he’d seen his Saldís…

He dashed that away. He returned to his vigil with eyeglass lifted. 

Wait. His breath hitched. His brother emerged from the fighting, both arms waving the rest of the Company away in a fashion that told Finnin his brother had done something. But what?

The Company broke and ran. Glinor led the way, having been farther from the front lines. Anuon thrust a shoulder beneath Thannor’s armpit and clamped an arm about the other man’s waist, aiding Thannor to run even as Thannor’s leg spurted blood. The Ranger must have run afoul of an enemy blade. 

Behind, Nori charged like a battering ram, favoring one leg but not slowing at all, and Kyri raced right behind with a burden upon his back. _Kai,_ Finnin assumed, though the blackened husk little resembled the silversmith.

And last? Orodon with a complaining Zobi tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—a sack of potatoes ready to take on the hundred or so remaining Arcanists and Weapons by himself. 

“Hurry,” Finnin whispered. With the lassies continuing to harass them with arrows, few of the Black Númenóreans seemed to realize aught was amiss.

‘Twas then there was this muted _boom_ —more a _poof,_ really—and a strange orange smoke billowed out from within the enemy’s midst. Each soul it touched stiffened, tried to run, then fell limp to the ground. _All_ of them. 

Finnin gaped. “He’s a genius,” he managed. “By brother. A Durin-blessed genius.”

Fear spread through the enemy faster than an elf chased by a team of wargs. Those at the edges of the force scattered, and for once, the blighted curs were not silent. He could hear their angry demands, see them shove and climb over one another in their rush to escape. 

The women watching from above never halted their assault, and as the last of the Black Company reached the plateau out of breath, Finnin knew it was time. He could not delay a second longer.

The warrior bent and struck his flint. A wee blow coaxed the flame to life. 

Then with his friends, he walked away from the canyon, a whistle on his lips.

When boom after boom told them that his brother’s lines of explosives had begun their deadly sequence, he grabbed Finnur close and squeezed him tight.

When the explosions stopped, Caeldor and its valley were no more.


	48. More Parting of Ways

_**Dol Hamoth, Tovennen** _

The ruins were full to bursting. Full of former slaves (shocked silent and passive, thank Mahal), youngsters running the gamut of arrogant and angry to timid and uncertain, crones who’d served willingly (and not) in Caeldor’s nursery, their wee charges (Nori had never changed so many nappies in his life), women freed from the accursed Den, and (of course) Nori’s band of heroes, most of which were stunned to find they’d survived the day to watch the sun set once again. 

Nori had escaped the crush o’ bodies, desperate for a bit of quiet, and stood upon a terraced roof, leaning against a dusty stone banister adorning its perimeter. He puffed upon the last of the pipeweed he’d procured in the Shire many months before and stared out across the jungle oasis filling the valley below. 

Mahal, but the day had been one for the storybooks. And then some. 

He snorted. When the Company recounted their tale for the scribes, none would believe it. ‘Twas the type of nonsense Bofur would concoct for a good laugh.

Which begged the question, just where was the fool? Where were Dori and Bifur? Nori had told his niece not to fret, but with each day’s passage without word, Nori could not shake the suspicion that his brother and friends had run into a bit more difficulty than they would chew. 

The question was what. And where.

Nori was determined to find answers to both of the questions…once he assured himself of his niece’s well being. He worried for the missing dwarves, aye, but it was a formless worry backed by naught but their absence. With Saldís, he knew exactly what he feared.

Her name was Akhora, and she shared his niece’s skin. For Saldis to confess her struggle to Finnin as she had disturbed him greatly, for it revealed just how serious she took the threat. He’d be following after her as soon as he could. 

_I’ll not fail you, Umral._

A sound prodded Nori to twist about, his hip resting against the banister. Lord Hlein and Thannor stepped out onto the terrace, Thannor limping along with a leery glance underfoot. The roof looked deplorable, but she’d hold, Nori believed. 

The dwarf lord nodded his greeting before breathing deeply and rubbing his forehead. “Mahal bless me, those children are a right mess. Convinced of their innate superiority, they are, and no two ways about it.”

Thannor nodded tiredly. “Though your idea seems to have borne some fruit.”

At that, Hlein snickered, and Nori’s curiosity was pricked. “Did I miss something, lads?”

“That ye did, Master Nori. That ye did.” Hlein smiled like the cat with a mouthful o’ the prized canary. 

“Lord Hlein asked Kyri and Ragan to clear some space of rubble,” Thannor explained. “The two proceeded to lift fallen slabs of rock bigger than a man and carry them across the length of the hall.”

“We’ll be needing the floor space for more pallets,” Hlein averred mildly.

Nori snorted. “Impressed, were they?”

“Never seen so many dangling jaws in my life,” Hlein informed him. “Coupled with the dressing down delivered by young Glivin for daring to speak disrespectfully of _his_ brothers, we may have gained an hour or two of peace.” 

Hlein’s thumbs tucked into his leather belt. “That lad will be heading home with Ragan if I’m any judge, and Thorin’s Hall will be fortunate to have him. That’s one fine warrior in the making if you can knock some o’ the Númenórean foolishness from him.”

_Aye._ Nori nodded his agreement, unsurprised at Hlein’s conclusion. Nori, too, had seen the way that lad responded to Ragan, and from the ex-thief’s observations, the bond went both ways. 

“That won’t be the last of the Novices’ outbursts,” Thannor commented. With ginger care, the Ranger stepped to Nori’s right. After setting one hand upon the railing, Thannor peered over the edge. “So, gentlemen. Caeldor has fallen. How are we to proceed?”

“I expect you will head out after your son,” Hlein commented.

Thannor inclined his head. “Before the sun rises.”

Hlein nodded, hands folding over his white beard. “No help for it. We’ll need to divide our efforts once more.”

Nori exhaled a long stream of smoke with a nod. “Aye. I’m guessing you Rangers will wish to send word to your chieftain.” After receiving Thannor’s affirmative, Nori abruptly stated, “We need to move these folks to Umbar.” 

“Umbar?” Thannor’s head canted to one side, his expression questioning.

“A few hard facts, lads. We’ve not the food for all the souls now filling Dol Hamoth. This wee cleft is bonny, but she’s smaller than the valley Caeldor possessed. Not enough game to be found and scarce enough water.”

“You answer a dilemma I’ve been pondering myself, Master Nori,” Thannor said slowly. “As you say, we don’t have the provisions here, and Caeldor’s is buried beneath an avalanche of stone. The longer we wait to move the children and women, the weaker they will grow from lack of sustenance.”

Nori twirled his pipe once. “Aye, and all those nice provisions are just sitting there, collecting dust and flies in Umbar’s warehouses. Quite the bounty, let me tell you.”

“What were you doing in the other warehouses?” Hlein asked. “Sightseeing?”

“Just looking.” Nori feigned insult. Then with a sniff, “Not like that bunch o’ murdering pirates will have any use for their contents where they’ve gone.”

“Find anything worth mentioning?” Hlein asked with sudden interest.

Nori shrugged. “The food, of course.” A short pause. A small grin. “A couple rugs and silks that would liven up my quarters in Thorin’s Hall. Oh, and the spices.” He snapped his fingers. “Bombur would have my hide if we left those behind for the vermin.”

“Should we make a list?” Thannor asked dryly.

Nori ignored the sarcasm. “Aye. For all the grief Umbar has caused, I say we let Prince Imrahil’s people know what treasures are awaiting for them as compensation. Minus a few trinkets as a finder’s fee.”

“Of course,” Thannor said low laugh. ‘Twas good to see, for the Ranger had been grim. 

Not that Nori didn’t well understand why. Thannor and his kinsmen had dressed Barhador’s body for burial, they had, but they’d not put him in the ground. All hoped a way was found to transport Barhador to Esteldin. The Ranger deserved to rest with honors in his homeland.

Each member of the Black Company had taken his turn saying his farewells. Nori knew he wasn’t the only dwarf to shed tears for the man. Barhador had been a great-hearted soul, and by Durin, he’d not be letting the man’s sacrifice be forgotten. 

Nori returned to business. “I’m also thinking it’d be good to have some distance between our charges and Caeldor in case any come sniffing for explanations. Umbar’s empty…”

“…we hope…” Hlein muttered.

Nori acknowledged that with a grunt. “And like I said, when the Black Vengeance hauled off those pirates, a good store of food was left behind…and ale,” he added with a wink. Then more somberly, “I don’t see as we have much choice. We cannot sit here watchin’ our supplies dwindle. There’s also the chance that if we send for Imrahil and his fine ships to take the children north, mayhap we can learn the fate o’ my kinsmen.”

Thannor stroked his beardless chin, eyes intent and mind a-working. “The Corsairs at Pelargir could return. We cannot discount that danger.”

Nori shrugged. “I’m thinking the lassies from the Den can deal with pirates. Especially with Novices like Glivin and Zobi to back ‘em up.”

Hlein rubbed the back of his neck. Meeting Nori’s gaze from beneath lowered eyebrows, the older dwarf said, “Medlinor and Kai are not up to such a journey.”

‘Twas true enough. Kai’s survival had stunned them all. The lad was not out of danger, not by a long shot with the way his body had gone into shock, but if their healer had aught to say about it, her love would survive. 

If not, if Kai dared do a fool thing like die on her, Nori harbored a suspicion that lass would find a way to storm Mandos’s Halls to give that dwarf a piece of her mind. 

“They cannot be left undefended,” Thannor said.

No, they couldn’t. But neither could those heading to Umbar. Though sympathetic to the females from the Den, Nori couldn’t help but view them with suspicion. Aye, their purposes aligned…for now…but they’d been molded in the same forge as the others. He’d not see one o’ them in charge of the Novices. 

Not willingly. “We need some o’ ours going to Umbar.”

“I’ll go,” Hlein said softly. From the hard note in his eyes, Nori suspected Hlein harbored the same doubts as himself, and it gave him comfort to know the warrior would be overseeing things in Umbar. 

“Take Thalon with you,” Thannor interjected. “Those ribs of his will survive the trip to Umbar, but he’s not up for a rushed flight north.”

“Might as well send Ragan, too,” Nori added. “If he rides north in search o’ the Gray Company, I’m thinking we’ll have Glivin and his growing pack o’ admirers sneaking off to follow him. Better put him with the Novices in Umbar where Glivin’s influence will work _for_ us.”

Thannor drummed fingers upon the banister. “Goira remains here with Kai and Medlinor until more help arrives.” Then he groaned, sagging against the rail. “The heavily pregnant women will need to remain. And the newborn babes.”

Nori felt a groan coming on himself. No doubt about it, Caeldor defeated or not, the Company still needed the aid Dís was off asking for. “I’ll write a missive to Dís, and we’d all best hope the messenger bird our Blue Wizard chatted with is of a mind to heed the wizard’s request and not simply fly home.”

“In the meantime,” Hlein said, “Kyri will stay here with his brother and Goira.”

“I’ll leave Glinor as well. Between the three of them, they should be safe so long as they are not discovered by the enemy,” Thannor said.

_And if they are found, it’s the tunnels for all o’ them, and pray to Mahal Dís arrives in time to save them._

“That’s that. So who does that leave to journey north?” Hlein asked.

“I go alone,” Thannor said softly.

Nori began to argue, but the Ranger cut him off. “I travel alone. Besides…” The Ranger’s body stiffened. He leaned over the rail. Then after swearing beneath his breath, the Ranger spun back around. “Finnin is departing.”

What? Nori dropped his pipe, then slapped out burning embers as they fell onto his chest. 

Aye, and Nori knew what the lad intended. He’d play the prisoner again. 

By Mahal, he was glad the lad acted when Nori was not yet free to do so. _I’ll be a day or two behind you,_ he told Finnin’s retreating back, watching as the warrior nudged his _emala_ towards the single access point into the canyon. 

Nori’s lips curved. Saldís was not going to be happy.

Thannon sighed. “I’ll send Anuon after him.”

“You think he’ll return?” Nori asked with heavy skepticism. 

“No,” Thannor said. “But at least one of us can pretend to have recaptured him en route back to Mordor.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Rippling Sands, Far Harad**  
_

Saldís surveyed the scene as Novices set up camp. For the first time in her memory, Caeldor’s trainees went through the motions of unsaddling and hobbling their _emala,_ relieving themselves, preparing their evening meals and pallets upon which to sleep…in pairs. Aye, some did so stony of face, their displeasure easily read, but by Durin, they did not test her. None left his partner’s side. 

It had been a long day. The morning had been busy as Saldís had paired the Novices together and set them through their paces—with instructions not to wound their partners. Remembering her suppositions in Thorin’s Hall, she’d laid down strict rules. Sparring was to test one another, to find weakness in order to _strengthen_ one another, not an opportunity to humiliate a foe to bolster one’s own ego. 

Tapping fingers against her thigh, she breathed deeply and decided she was well pleased with the progress of the day. She’d been firm with her Novices, but she’d also been fair. Their loyalty would not be secured after one day, but by the seven dwarf fathers, she’d net that prize and never abuse it.

A pivot on one foot returned her to her _emala._ Unbuckling the saddle’s dozen latches took a few minutes. Once that was hefted from the happier bird’s back and set aside, she led the animal to an area from which it could forage, driving a stake into a firm patch of dirt and tying its lead rope to it. The large bird wasted no time in pecking underfoot, seeking anything edible. 

She next dragged Erynor from his own _emala._ With brisk motions, she prodded him to a seat upon the baked ground, hobbled his legs by virtue of tying them tightly together—this land of windswept, compacted dirt lacked so much as a single tree to tie him to—and tended his bird. 

Only then did she turn her attention to her evening meal. There was little dry foliage to be found, so she dug into her precious reserves of kindling in order to cook her food.

It was as she sitting cross-legged on the ground, chewing a porridge of lentils and corn, that Ne-Hilliz joined her. Erynor watched from hooded eyes not two yards away. 

She’d feed him after she finished her own meal. To do otherwise, placing him first, would elicit too much curiosity. Too much question.

“Ib-Akhora,” Hilliz greeted. 

Saldís finished chewing, measuring his mood. The small fire she’d built to her left illuminated his face and eyes, and if she had to label him this night, she would say he was reflective. “What can I do for you, Ne-Hilliz?”

He tossed a scowl Erynor’s way before dropping to a squat before her. “You’re right,” he said abruptly. “What you said this morning. We are divided. Ar-Aemazia was wise to recognize it and implement a plan to change it.”

That…was unusual, she thought. Númenóreans did not congratulate one another for being correct. Testing her way, she said, “I’m glad our plans meet with your approval.”

A flash of frustration crossed his face, and one hand fisted. 

Saldís set aside her meal. “I’ve never been one to mince words, Ne-Hilliz, and my time away has only increased my disdain for games. Speak plainly.”

His dark eyes narrowed, then he nodded shortly. “I’m saying, Ib-Akhora, that you have my sword. I see what you do, and as the Novices have partners to watch each other’s backs, you’ll have me.” He thumped his chest with one hand.

With that stunning proclamation, Hilliz rose and walked away, head high and shoulders tight. 

Saldís’s eyes slid helplessly to Erynor and found him equally wide-eyed. Not for the first time, frustration crashed over her. Berúthiel’s twisted cats, the Khazâd among the Black Company should have taught their Rangers Iglishmêk. She dared not speak with the Brother openly—it would be pure folly—but she dearly wished to communicate with him. 

Instead, she picked up her meal and resumed eating as if naught had happened. Calmly, while her mind raced, chasing this new rabbit down every path it fled. 

Hilliz, she feared, suddenly viewed her as a crusader among their people, a woman who would lead the way to a stronger Caeldor. Having him watching her back was helpful, she’d admit that—Mahris, she suspected, was going to break Saldís’s rules at some point, so having Hilliz on her side if she had to kill the other woman was to her benefit.

But little did she need his eyes depriving her of any chance to speak more openly to Novices. 

Akhora was ominously silent, but Saldís sensed satisfaction radiating from that other side of herself. Satisfaction and calculation.

OoOoOo

_  
**South Ithilien, Gondor**  
_

Bifur watched from beneath lowered eyebrows as Valkthor kicked up stones, scowling at his Corsair escorts while pacing back and forth before the campfire he’d denied the men permission to build. Valkthor, he thought, didn’t much care to be overruled. 

If he had to bet, Bifur would place all his markers on the fact that Valkthor was running low on those wee vials of blood so necessary to his magics. 

_Or mayhap the cretin knows full well he has need yet of these pirates._ Best not to assume, Bifur concluded. Valkthor was dangerous, and a wise dwarf would not lose sight of that or underestimate him. 

Their party had traveled two nights through without stopping for more than relieving themselves, a sip of water, and a bite to eat. More’n fifty hours had passed since they’d departed Pelargir, and Bifur wondered how Dori was faring. 

How all his friends fared. Where, he fretted, was his Saldís now? Was she safe with her uncle Nori? Had Thannor saved her from the Haradrim? More, how fared his Gêdul’s spirit? What damage had the abuse done her caused?

By Durin, he hated that she might need him more’n ever and he was not there. Nay, there was naught he could have done, but it tasted like failure on his tongue, and in Bifur’s mind, he’d done too much of that.

With a sigh, he let the matter go. At the moment, his hands were tied. In more ways than one. 

Instead, he drank in his surroundings. The land around them was a rich one, full of rolling green hills, scattered groves, and blankets of wildflowers—a far cry from what they’d be entering at this journey’s end. Truly, this land brought to mind the Shire, and how he longed to return to the peace of Brockenborings, when Saldís had laughed and almost drawn that sword of hers in defense of her family.

Bifur readjusted his seat, hands bound with sisal and lashed to his ankles. Instantly, Valkthor’s attention flew his way. 

_As if I could burst free and wing my way to freedom._ Aye, the sisal was little challenge to a dwarf’s strength, but Valkthor’s magics and his escort were mite different a matter. 

Ignoring Valkthor’s scrutiny, Bifur looked to his cousin who was similarly trussed up some six yards away. Now, Bifur was no mind-reader, but he knew his cousin, and Bofur’s mind was whirling as he took note of all around him. Truly, if Bofur was of a mind, Bifur suspected his cousin could eventually win free.

But Bofur wouldn’t. They’d had a heated debate in Iglishmêk, they had, and the argument had turned angry. Bifur wanted his beloved cousin safe, and Bofur refused to be parted from him. Neither would budge, and both had left the altercation bristling and frustrated.

A sentiment that seemed foolish in hindsight. A wiggle of the fingers as if to loosen them up, and Bofur’s eyes slid his way. _*I’m a right fool, Cousin. I should not have spoken to you as I did.*_

Bofur’s eyes narrowed a wee bit. _*Aye.*_

By Mahal. Bifur’s lips twitched. _*I’m thankful for you. As you say, we do this together.*_

And there flashed Bofur’s grin. _*Do you suppose there is any good ale to be had in Mordor?*_

OoOoOo

_  
**Forsaken Flats, Far Harad**  
_

Dís dismounted her _emala_ with a grunt, tired to her bones and, aye, a bit wide-eyed as well. Two days of travel, and the trio had covered countless miles—much more than she’d dared to dream. Truly, she’d never seen the like or even heard rumor of it from Gandalf. If the Blue Wizard’s magic held, and their party’s progress remained steady, she imagined they be reaching the Bleeding Swamps in another five days. Mayhap six on the outside. 

_And then the fun begins._ The _emala,_ she suspected, would balk at entering that cesspool. She’d never laid eyes on it herself, but tales had been handed down. Miserable tales of blood-sucking swarms of insects, creatures that lurked in the red waters that struck without warning, and a foul stench that permeated the air so strongly, one could taste it.

The party quietly tended to their tired birds, tying them on long ropes that permitted the birds to scavenge at will. They next set up camp within the birds’ range—the birds might prefer root vegetables, seeds, and other plants, but they’d gobble up a snake if one happened by. That was a boon Dís would not turn her nose up at, not in these vermin-infested lands. 

“Tell me, Wizard,” Dís broached once the three were seated and their meal of the day—a mixture of jerky, nuts, and wizened, shriveled fruit—consumed, “I’ve never heard of our Gray Wizard traveling with this speed. Is this ability of yours common to all wizards?”

Pallando rolled the staff he rested across his lap, his lips pursed. After a low hum, he said in his soft voice, “There are five us. Four chosen by the Valar themselves.” A brief smile. “And me. I, you see, refused to allow my friend to venture into danger without me at his side.”

Dís’s eyebrows winged upwards. 

“To answer your question, no. Your Gray Wizard does not possess this skill,” he answered. With head cocked to one side, he said, “What do you know of us? What do you know of our origins?”

Dís shared a glance with Dár before answering, “Nothing.”

Pallando hummed in the back of his throat. “We were chosen by our individual patron Valar. Your Gray Wizard answers to Lord Manwë himself, and like his lord, Mithrandir’s gifts lie with the winds. He speaks to the birds, the butterflies and the moths, and they heed him.” Then, almost to himself, “I’ve often wondered if his friendship with the Eagles endured these many years.”

“It has,” Dís answered. Dwalin had often recounted the tale of being rescued by the Eagles at Gandalf’s behest. 

Pallando hummed again. “The Brown Wizard is Lady Yavanna’s. His heart will always long for the wild places, for forests and green.”

“And yourself?” Dár asked. 

A fleeting smile, there and gone as the wizard rose to his feet. “Alatar and I? We belong to Oromë.” With that he walked to a patch of dirt and lay down, nudging his hat over his eyes.

_The Huntsman._

But he had other names, too: Lord of Forests and Great Rider.

OoOoOo

_  
**Harad Road, Near Harad**  
_

Berenor listened.

It was all he could do with a blindfold over his eyes, gag between his lips, hands bound behind his back, and ankles tied so tightly it cut off the circulation to his feet. A swarm of pin-like prickles buzzed through his soles, a persistent annoyance that no amount of toe wiggling relieved.

He ached. None of The Brothers had escaped the Black Númenóreans’ tender mercies, and he shuddered each time the memory of Aemazia’s attentions returned to him. Using his evil magics, the man had inflicted pain unlike anything Berenor had ever imagined, and if asked before his capture, he’d have sworn he had an active imagination. 

His body had few marks, yet the pain persisted, deep and disconcerting. Berenor felt defiled from having such black and pervasive _evil_ doing things inside his body. The horror of it haunted him. 

Terror had dug its pernicious claws into him, and he wondered if it would ever let loose. Berenor had been raised with stories of his forefathers and the Dark Lord. Now, he truly understood the nightmare that Mordor threatened to unleash, the absolute terror all of Middle Earth would suffer should the Black Company fail and Mordor succeed in its war.

As empty, formless hours passed, Berenor tried to banish his own inner demons with other worries. Calenor. Erynor. Berenor knew Calenor was in the same condition as he: gagged and blinded. Erynor, he’d overheard, had been sent to Mordor too but by another route with Saldís. 

The relief he’d experienced when he’d learned that had almost reduced him to tears. His cousin was strong, and she was dangerous. Erynor, he figured, had the best chance of The Brothers to survive the path ahead.

But who, he begged Eru to know, had been the Ranger to die in Caeldor? Who had they lost?


	49. The One Hundred and Eight

_**Pelennor Fields, Gondor  
15 March TA 3019** _

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, at last allowed his sword tip to drop. In every direction, bodies littered the fields. 

Men had fought. By all the Valar, they had fought. And they had died. Rohirrim. Swan Knights from Dol Amroth. Rangers of Ithilien, and the men of Gondor.

His own kin, too. Halbarad had fallen along with too many of the Gray Company. _Most_ of the Gray Company. 

_Their sacrifice shall not be in vain._

Aragorn’s gaze lifted to the burning peak towering in the distance. From there, Mordor’s lord watched, and somewhere within that dark land, one hobbit carried the fate of them all in his small hands. Did Frodo live? Was Sam still with him?

His gaze traveled farther south. There was no word from the Black Company, nor did he expect it. Fear for his kinsmen touched him, along with hope. He knew Barhador well. If there was any way to delay or undermine the Black Númenóreans, Barhador would see to it no matter the cost to himself or his companions. 

_So much sacrifice. May it be enough._

“Aragorn!”

At Elrohir’s call, the rightful king of Gondor twisted around. 

“You are needed at the Halls of Healing. It’s Lady Eowyn…and Merry.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Banks of the Anduin, Southern Ithilien**  
_

Dori mounted his horse, eyes scanning the darkened land around him. He’d seen no sign of Bofur and Bifur’s captors—nor, indeed, his friends—but then, he was no scout. The passage of an army of orcs, he’d read, aye. But a small band of Corsairs with two prisoners? In this grass?

_No question where they’re headed._ That, he dared hope, would suffice. But by Mahal, he hoped he reached them before they ventured past the ghoulish Dead City. ‘Twas said some fell thing guarded that path, and Dori didn’t expect he’d be reclaiming his friends if they passed beyond it. 

Dori had taken to sleeping by day and traveling by night. Aye, some of this land possessed rolling hills, but vast swaths of it were flat as metal after the hammering. Riding openly during daylight was an invitation to be discovered. 

Dori would not risk it. Some rescue _that_ would be. 

Nay, instead he used the cover of darkness, and hoped and fretted over each of his loved ones. Bofur and Bifur, aye, and he had plenty of reasons to fear for them. But also Nori. Had his brother’s rashness gotten him into trouble? Who would pull him out if Dori was not present? 

Dori tugged upon his beard, debating his path. Stay near the Anduin or head east until he found the Harad Road? 

_The Harad Road._ He was no expert on their enemy, but ‘twas unlikely to his mind they’d follow the Anduin all the way north to Osgiliath and the men of Gondor. _If_ the men had survived with what Chieftain Aragorn had told him. There was a distinct chance Minas Tirith was no more, nor Osgiliath. 

But would that wretch, Valkthor, know that?

_Bah._ He nudged his horse into a canter, hoping he’d reasoned it aright. This dwarf was betting on the Harad Road. In little time at all, he left the Anduin’s mighty roar behind.

OoOoOo

_  
**Harad Road, Far Harad**  
_

Ib-Lhorzor and his Weapons kept to the Harad Road, stopping for little more than to water their _emala,_ eat and tend to themselves and their prisoners. Sleep was had in the saddle.

He could not shake the feeling that the world changed around him, that tremendous events were reforming the future until nothing was certain. Intuition? A fleeting flare of vision? Whichever, it prodded him onward with urgency. He had to get these prisoners to Ar-Cavendor and the Master.

The hair at the nape of this neck prickled. The road behind him remained empty, so why did he feel as if he was being hunted?

OoOoOo

Thannor meticulously scoured the outskirts of Caeldor until he found the tracks he needed.

Then, he didn’t stop. 

_The Harad Road._ Ib-Lohrzor’s tracks led straight to the ancient byway, and based upon what Thannor could read, the man raced as if all the wargs of Mordor were on his tail. Almost as if the man knew Caeldor had collapsed less than a day after his departure.

Surely that wasn’t possible. Or had word somehow been sent? Something the Dunedain had missed? He rubbed his jaw, then he swore in both Quenyan and Sindaran. 

Thannor was suddenly and eternally grateful he’d thought to bring not just one mount, but two. He’d need them both, and all the speed the animals could give him.

He reclaimed his saddle with a leap lacking in agility due to the injuries he’d sustained in Caeldor. Then with a click of the tongue and gentle pressure around the animal’s body, he urged it into a run, its compatriot pulled in its wake by a long lead. 

Nothing would stop him. He would return with his son…or not at all.

OoOoOo

_  
**Calobi Hills, Far Harad**  
_

Time slipped through Saldís’s fingers like sand. _Urkhas kûd,_ but ten days was grossly insufficient for her task. Absurdly so. Yet it was all she had, and no complaining to the ever-silent Valar would alter that truth. 

Each day, she rose earlier from her pallet, a growing sense of doom and the fear of failure disallowing more than brief snatches of rest. She took to walking among her Novices during the night. Studying them. Eru scorch it, even praying for them. (Not that she was convinced _that_ did much good. Saldís remained conflicted where Eru and his Valar were concerned. Aye, they’d given her Adâd, but they’d also given her Caeldor.)

There was progress. Aye, glimpses that fueled hope. The pairs she’d assigned acquired depth and surety. The Novices began to extend fragile trust to one another.

By Bifur’s spear, she’d almost teared up at the first evidence of it. There she’d stood, throat tight as she watched an older Novice from House Mordhalor coach his younger partner, a girl from Fuinir, demonstrating a solid defense and then aiding her to rectify the gaps in her own. Saldís had left the two alone, not willing to disturb the momentous event. 

But then came the fourth day of their journey. 

With six days left, it all threatened to capsize.

OoOoOo

Silence. The world itself seemed hushed. Eyes burned into her, too many and too deeply. Saldís stood tall, face wiped of all expression.

The morning had started promising, her Novices progressing so well with their partners that she considered moving them into quartets. But then a cruel turn: two from House Herumor ambushed a Novice from Berúthiel in search of revenge for some past slight. One of the ambushers was none other than Mazir’s partner, assigned by Saldís herself.

A dry wind ruffled Saldís’s unbound hair and teased the scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her gaze left the single girl-Novice standing at attention before her—the other Saldís would deal with as well, but this one had betrayed her partner—and studied the sea of faces lined up in ranks beyond. 

The whole of the troop stood witness. All watched to learn the fate of one Ilhia of House Herumor.

Lost among the many Novices, she knew Yahzin stood, the girl she’d saved in Caeldor, and the only soul present to know of Saldís’s tattoo or actions before “returning” officially. _I came to save you,_ replayed through her mind in her own voice. 

Saldís felt the hypocrite.

_You claimed you wished to save them,_ came Akhora’s bored voice. _No matter the cost. Now you quibble? If you do not keep your word to these Novices, you will lose them permanently. Are you truly going to permit that to happen? Over one Novice?_

Saldís’s lips flattened. Her nostrils flared. Little did she need the harpy lecturing her. She recognized the wall she was backed up against. How not? ‘Twas of her own fool making, and by Durin’s famed beard, she should have anticipated this. 

Her Novices were as used to games and deceit as a fish its water. They were angry and jaded. Of _course_ some would break Saldís’s rules. Whether the violation was the product of habit—two silly Novices reverting to a life’s worth of conditioning—or a testing of Saldís’s resolve, the outcome was the same. The two girls had challenged her, and now all watched to see what Saldís would do.

_There is no choice,_ Akhora snapped with rising disdain. _Even **you** know that. Sacrifice one to save the others, or spare the one and lose them all. It is not a difficult decision._

Said she of no soul. 

The girl not partnered to Mazir, Saldís could perhaps punish less severely. That one had not betrayed a partner. But Ilhia…

Akhora spoke an abhorrent truth, but a truth nonetheless. By Mahal, what grudge could the Novice possibly bear? Mazir was a year younger. He was not Ilhia’s equal with the scimitar, at least not yet. Should the boy continue to improve at the rate he was, however, that could soon change. _Would_ soon change if Saldís had aught to say about it. 

Mazir had successfully fended off his attackers until Hilliz arrived to separate the three, and all of them had been dragged before Saldís for judgment. Now, every Novice from Berúthiel House waited to see if Saldís would make good on her word. Waited to see if she was any different from the Six Lords and Hands who had never bothered to intervene in such matters.

The Novices of House Herumor, too, remained conspicuously silent, and to Saldís, it seemed they looked upon the two girls with displeasure. That, too, was cause for Saldís to act, for before this journey, they would not have cared. 

To do as she’d said, to stake out this child in the desert for the serpents and sun to slay… Mahal.

_You must do it,_ she told herself, feeling every bit the monster. This crime would add to the tally of every wretched thing Saldís had done. It should have felt a drop in a deep, deep well, but instead it felt heavier than all the rest put together.

All but the original Gondorians.

_Just get it done._ If she didn’t see this Novice punished, the rest would never believe her again. ‘Twas her word on the line, their trust of her, and if that was lost, she may as well abandon her efforts with these Novices altogether.

Saldís’s focus at last returned to Ilhia. The fourteen year old looked painfully thin and vulnerable with her weapons stripped from her. The malicious superiority that had dominated her features when she’d ridiculed Mazir was gone as if it’d never been. Only now did she begin to question the wisdom of her actions. 

“Novice Ilhia. You heard my rules. And you have broken them.”

The girl darted a nervous look over her shoulder. Nay, a pleading look. 

“You will be stripped to your tunic and staked out beneath the sun.” Saldís forced the words from her lips, her gut clenching. As the frantically pleading face turned Saldís’s way, Saldís hated herself all the more. 

_No choice,_ Akhora whispered. 

No, there wasn’t. 

“Novice Mazir…” A disturbance. A reprieve. Saldís’s head whipped up, and her hand to command silence while Mahris sprinted to the top of the nearest squat hill. 

The fey smile of delight that beamed back at Saldís sent chills down her spine. “Why _look._ One of the little dwarves managed to escape again!”

OoOoOo

Saldís reached the top of the small hill without touching ground, her heart slamming against her breastbone. She scanned the southern vista, ignoring Mahris’s giggles. _It cannot be. It can’t._

It was. 

She was going to kill him. 

What in Durin’s name was Finnin thinking? Or had he? Given the sight drawing nearer with each pound of the vein in her temple, the idea of her dwarf possessing any wits whatsoever was seriously in question. 

The two travelers grew larger as the distance closed. Saldís’s fury acquired fangs and barbed tail as she noted more details. Either her dwarf had pummeled himself black and blue—aye, even giving himself a split lip!—or he’d had his escort do it for him, and did _that_ do wonders for her frothing temper. 

Finnin’s golden hair was a right mess, littered with twigs and weeds, his ragged clothes were filthy with dirt, and when he tripped in the wake of Anuon’s _emala_ , she discovered why. The fool dwarf was dragged a good dozen paces before he managed to right himself once more and resume an exhausted, staggering run. 

Just how long had the two played this game? And all for show! Finnin had _hurt_ himself, let himself be _dragged,_ just so that he had a viable story to enable him to rejoin her. She didn’t know whether she more wished to throw her arms around the idiot and kiss him senseless or tear the beard from his face by painful fistfuls. 

Not that either was currently an option. 

“Make a path,” she snapped, and the Novices scrambled to do just that. To Hilliz, who marched by her side through the Novice ranks, she permitted herself to express her anger, albeit in deceitful terms. “Whatever lack-wit was left in charge of my dwarves will wish himself never born by the time I am through with him. After all the effort I went through capturing them,” she bit out, “one would think someone would ensure they _remained_ captured.”

Hilliz grunted in agreement. 

Anuon slowed his _emala,_ reaching the back of the Novice ranks the same time as Saldís and Hilliz. The Ranger permitted the animal to walk the final steps to her. 

Before Anuon could utter a word, Saldís demanded, “What is the meaning of this, Ne-Anin?” And by Mahal, the Ranger had best give her clues as to how he intended to play this or she would drag him from his mount and punch him. “That dwarf is valuable property of the Duumvirate. Your actions do not reflect well upon House Vinuir.”

Anuon didn’t bat an eye. “Ib-Akhora. I’d been told by Ar-Aemazia of your return. How…fortuitous for House Sangahyando.”

She bared her teeth at him, not yet willing to let go of her anger no matter how impressed she again found herself with the Rangers. Apprised of her return? All would assume Anuon one of the Weapons assigned to Mordor. Few would question if they did not recognize him. Prior to Caeldor’s troops marching north, the city had been full to bursting with faces, too many for any to keep track of.

“House Vinuir?” Hilliz murmured.

“Served with me during a raid into Agar,” she informed him, her focus never leaving the Ranger. 

“Lately of Mordor,” Anuon added. “At Ar-Cavendor’s wish, I brought missives to Ar-Aemazia. Mordor had not heard of Tagan’s death. Clearly, Cavendor was correct to question Caeldor’s silence.”

_Well played again._ Now all ears would suspect Tagan of hoarding information before his death. That might be of use at some point. 

“I was returning to Mordor when my path crossed that of some missing property of yours,” Anuon continued, yanking Finnin’s lead rope for emphasis. Saldís knew the reason, yet by Durin a part of her longed to lash out as Finnin wavered on his feet. Ruse or not, Finnin was near to dropping where he stood, and Saldís’s protective hackles rose.

By Mahal, her warrior looked wretched. One of his Tane-blue eyes was black and puffy, almost completely sealed shut. Blood, sweat and dirt matted his bruised jaw and hands, and his bare chest…

His bare chest. A chest utterly free of one important feature. 

Where was the scar? 

The oddity threw her, for she remembered clearly tracing fingers across the mark in the vision, wondering that he’d survived its gifting. Where was the thrice-accursed scar? How could it not be there? It _had_ to be there. The vision had been so clear…

She stared too long, for Hilliz shifted closer. “Ib-Akhora?”

Finnin’s body tensed, she had no idea why, but his hale eye narrowed on the Weapon. 

Saldís tore her attention from her dwarf and his glaringly _absent_ scar and placed it back on Anuon. “Take him back to Caeldor.” She didn’t glance towards Finnin as she partially turned, intending to walk back to the head of her troops. “Tell Ar-Aemazia I want the head of the fool who permitted his escape.”

“No.”

“No?” She jerked back around. Did Anuon not understand how unbelievably reckless he was being? He and Finnin both? 

Anuon smirked, true amusement lurking in his brown eyes. “I am commanded back to Mordor. My duties do not permit me time to retrace my steps, and to be quite frank, Caeldor has failed to guard our dwarf resources twice now. Lord Cavendor would not take well to hearing I escorted one of them back to the land that keeps losing them when I could have brought the dwarf where he could be best utilized.”

Mahal. They were mad. Infernally, stubbornly mad, the both of them.

“You overstep yourself, _Ne_ -Anin,” Hilliz interjected with quiet threat. 

Anuon, to his credit, did not flinch. With a smile lacking any amusement, he sallied, “I endeavor to save my own skin, Weapons-Master. If you wish to explain matters to the Dark Lord, be my guest.”

And that, Saldís thought, ended that. None would do aught differently in “Ne-Anin’s” shoes. 

Confound it. 

With little grace, she directed to Hilliz, “Tie up the dwarf with the other prisoner. And Hilliz? Don’t damage him.” 

A short nod, and the man collected Finnin’s lead. He marched off without a backward glance, Finnin perforce stumbling behind, and when the dwarf passed her, his fingers moved. _*Bâhzundushuh.*_

Their eyes locked in a stolen and _(Mahal)_ tangible caress. As soon as it happened, it was over, and she was returned to the present.

Shaken. Grateful. ‘Twas as if that meeting of the eyes was akin to the sinking of a iron stake deep into a mountainside, and a world she hadn’t even realized had been teetering wildly stabilized beneath her feet. 

She stepped to Anuon’s _emala._ With one finger pointed downward, she ordered him from his saddle. “Start talking,” she whispered when he complied, carefully maintaining the illusion of a quiet dressing-down.

“Berenor and Calenor were given to Ib-Lohrzor. He takes them to Mordor by another route.”

Of all the words she’d expected to emerge from his lips, those ranked last. 

“Caeldor is no more. We succeeded, Saldís. Nori has the slaves, Breeders, and young Novices holed up in Dol Hamoth.”

She blinked, shook her head. How…?

It didn’t matter. The magnitude of their victory staggered her, and she breathed it in deeply. ‘Twas exquisite news, and it felt a lodestone slid off her shoulders, leaving her almost giddy. “Losses?”

“Himon. Medlinor won’t be fighting anytime soon, nor will Kai.”

_Mahal._ Sorrow tainted the victory, turning it bittersweet, indeed. “Is that why Barhador permitted you to do this?”

A pause, and she knew, just _knew,_ she would not like what next was said. “Barhador is dead, Saldís. I am sorry,” he added when her eyes closed. 

Durin’s beard, she’d scarce had the chance to get to know the man. The loss burned her throat, and she fought the sensation back. ‘Twas not the place or time. “Adâd? Has there been word?”

“Nothing.” Then with gentleness, “Barhador died to save Novice Yahzin from Tagan.”

_“Barhador_ killed them?” she whispered, eyes flying to Anuon’s. 

“With help. Yahzin finished Tagan.” Somber brown eyes met hers. “Thannor has adopted Yahzin into his family. He pursues Berenor, trusting you with his new daughter.”

_Orc spit._ Aye, and she would not fail him. After a short shake, she asked, “Do you stay with us? Or are you finished, having delivered Finnin here?” It would not surprise her should he decide to head out and join Thannor. Berenor was his nephew.

He eyed her steadily. “I go with you.”

She had the feeling the Ranger knew exactly how relieved she was to hear it. _Six days left._

OoOoOo

The moment she again stood before her Novices, the instant she stared into their faces, Saldís’s voice left her. The responsibility of these young lives punched home anew, and the bizarre sense of shifting ground beneath her feet returned.

A thought: these Novices had no home to go back to. Either she won them, or Mordor would have them.

Among all the dozens of young faces, it was Yahzin’s she found. Yahzin, with the single dent between her eyebrows, her green eyes conveying both a fierce hope and deep despair. ‘Twas like looking upon her younger self.

_I came to save you,_ Saldís’s own voice repeated in her mind. _Save all of you._ A flick, and Ilhia’s diminutive form filled her vision.

‘Twas then the veil was ripped from her eyes, sending alternating hot and cold flashes through her body. Clearer eyes suddenly beheld what jaded past had obscured, and by Durin, it laid waste to her soul. A flash of insight, like lighting arcing across the skies: Saldís had been manipulated. 

Masterfully.

Imperceptibly.

So subtly, she hadn’t even recognized it. 

_Oh, well played,_ she whispered to her inner nemesis. _Very well played._ Unable to topple Saldís from control by force, her dark side had opted for a new route, one Saldís hadn’t even considered being too busy with other pressing matters. 

Matters such as Caeldor. Novices. Mordor. Aye, Saldís had been much distracted—rightfully so—and Akhora had capitalized upon it. Now she well understood that sense of calculation she’d pick up on, but at the time, she’d dismissed it, too consumed with other worries. 

A mistake, and a big one. 

_Mahal._ If not for the proof before her, it would be tempting to dismiss the entire notion as an overactive imagination. She little wanted to believe herself so susceptible to such meddling. 

But there stood Ilhia. Before Finnin and Anuon’s arrival, Akhora’s sly insults and oh-so- _pragmatic_ comments—so akin to how she…they (by Mahal ‘twas confusing)…had operated for decades—had seemed right. Sacrifice one Novice to save the others. What could be more _reasonable?_

As if that one life had no value. 

A burst of self-directed condemnation, a spear of grief. Was not Saldís the guiltier party betwixt the twain of them? Ilhia might have intended to take a life; Saldís had succeeded too often in her miserable past. Who then was the more deserving of death?

_Where are you, Adâd? I need you to be here._

Uncaring of the eyes upon her, Saldís pinched the bridge of her nose. _I came to save you,_ she’d professed. Then what about Ilhia? Could any good flow out of an act of evil? Executing a child?

Berúthiel’s wretched cats. A sly nudge here, a dry comment there, and Saldís had returned to old habits as if she’d never left them. A duck returning to water.

If Finnin had not come for her, she would have done it. She’d have hated it and herself—had she not been warding herself for this new burden of guilt?—but she’d have done it. She’d have taken that first step that doubtless Akhora intended to to be one of many, each inching her closer to becoming again the commander she’d once been.

She distantly wondered how that might have unfolded. Would those compromises have resulted in Saldís becoming so much like Akhora that the two of them merged into one, only this time without a Saldís-self buried deep to preserve her conscience? 

“Ib-Akhora?” Hilliz, his voice quiet, cautious.

“Aw, are we breaking under the strain? The great Akhora?” Mahris’s high-pitched cackles skittered down her spine like hordes of fire ants.

Saldís dropped her hand and faced her Novices. She firmed her resolve. Wallowing in self-disgust helped no one but Akhora. 

So. Her inner enemy had a new game to play. ‘Twas better Saldís recognized it now than after she’d been convinced to make more compromises in the name of “right”. She was not so foolish not to realize Akhora would have a wealth of opportunities to present her with such compromises once they set foot— _if_ they set foot—in Mordor.

‘Twas a peril she could not afford to underestimate. In it, Akhora had struck gold, for Saldís’s own fierce desire to see the Black Númenóreans fall—aye, and Mordor—would betray her. Tempt her. 

But with another flick of the eye to Finnin, then Anuon, she thought, _But I don’t stand alone, do I?_ What was it her adâd had said? About being stronger together? Of sharing the burdens? Adâd might not be there, but Finnin and Anuon were. 

Her spine straightened. Her shoulders drew back. _You underestimate them,_ she told her dark side. Saldís need only alert the two males to this new assault, and they would aid her. If she could not trust the thoughts in her head, she would listen instead to theirs.

Akhora was conspicuous in her silence. No threats. No insults. A sure sign the harpy was not defeated. There would be more assaults to come. Saldís was sure of it. 

She dismissed the matter. At present, she had a more urgent quandary to address. 

Starting slowly, testing her way, she spoke to her Novices. “When we began, I told you my rules. I assigned each of you a partner, and I shared with you why we must change.”

From yards away, ‘twas evident Anuon listened by the tilt of his head as he cared for his _emala._ When she finished her statement, he turned to face her in full.

“I told you that betraying confidences between partners would no longer be tolerated. That what happened to one had better happen to the other, or the Novice failing his partner would face my wrath. I swore to leave the Novice to fail me to the serpents. I was wrong.”

Ripples of shock worked their way through the ranks. Aye, and understandably so. Saldís doubted any had ever apologized to these children before.

She again found Yahzin and decided her course. “In essence,” she said directly to the girl, “I was offering you, each of you, my sword. If you fought for me, then by my soul, I’d do right by you in return. I would do my utmost to protect you.”

The crease between the girl’s eyebrows disappeared. She nodded slowly. 

_Good._ Message received. Whatever doubts Saldís’s earlier words had planted, they were assuaged.

As the last time she’d addressed them, Saldís walked among the Novices, gaze touching each, _seeing_ them and letting them know it. She abruptly stopped near their center. “My companions,” she said, and many startled at the term she’d chosen, “I have a dilemma. Since the time you were taken from the nursery and a sword thrust in your hand, you were taught one thing alone: advancement. You learned that to survive, you must betray before you were betrayed. There was none you could trust, for each vied for the same prize—the illusive advancement that would mean your security. Safety from the older Arcanists and Weapons who would humiliate or harm you for their amusement. Safety from the altars and the Breeders’ Den.”

A few shallow nods, nods she returned gravely. “I know it, too. I’ve lived it.”

She walked, zig-zagging through their lines towards the rear. A pivot, a sideways glance that permitted her to see her dwarf in full—why the dwarf wore a wee smile, she intended to one day ask—and she retraced her steps. “What I have asked must seem impossible to some of you. No,” she corrected, “utter insanity.”

A lifted arm to gesture. “Ilhia, for one. What should I do, my companions, to teach you a better way? To show you that the real strength lies not in the quiet knife in the back but in numbers. If a foe takes you down, and you have no true companions, who is there to aid you back to your feet?”

“No one.”

All startled at Yahzin’s bold answer. Saldís smiled at her, likely the first genuine smile the children had ever seen, one devoid of cruelty or malice. (The realization wilted it right quickly, too.)

“No one,” she agreed. A deep inhalation, and Saldís pressed onward. “I cannot teach you a new way by violence. Loyalty and trust cannot be forced. It is a gift, given or withheld, and it lies entirely in your control. You can grant it to me or not. You can extend it to your partner or not. But without it, you stand alone. And one day, you will fall alone.”

She dragged fingers through her hair, again surprising them by showing emotion so freely. “So I ask you. Do you learn how to become a unit by me staking out this Novice as I’d threatened? Or do I simply underscore all the hard lessons you’ve learned? By doing so, you would believe me no different from the Hands, the Six Lords or every cowardly wretch bearing more earrings than you.” A pause. “And you’d be right.”

By Mahal, they looked big-eyed. ‘Twas actually rather endearing. And amusing. When her gaze crossed Anuon’s the Ranger winked. 

“If I execute a child—I care not how talented she believes herself—then I am no different, and you are right not to trust me.” 

Such silence descended. One could hear the hollow song of the wind as it rushed in spurts between the hills and spindly bushes, the caw of the large blackbirds that reigned these skies. 

“But I cannot waste time, for we do not have any to spare. You may decide the mercy I am about to offer worse than the alternative.” More briskly. “Novices Ilhia and Sverra made their choice when they broke faith with Mazir. They prefer games and backstabbing, so they have no place among my troops.” 

Finding each of the girls, she said, “Gather your gear. All of it. You will load up your _emala_ and wait behind Ne-Hilliz. Mahris? You, too.”

Mahris’s head whipped around, eyes narrowed.

Hilliz eased closer. “Is that wise, Ib-Akhora?” he asked in a tight voice. 

Saldís considered the man, assessing his frame of mind. What she’d just said to the Novice could well have turned him against her. At last, she said, “They will disrupt all Ar-Aemazia wished me to do. They must leave. Tell me, Ne-Hilliz, who should I send with them? Who will the Novices more respect and heed? Mahris? Or Ne-Anin, whom they do not know?”

“Point.” He subsided, arms behind his back. Mahris, in a lightning-quick switch of moods, nodded briskly, pivoted on one foot, and marched off, her stride purposeful and…sane. 

When the girls departed to do as commanded, Saldís spoke to the others. “I offer one last chance. Any more of you who do not like what I am doing and wish to leave, gather your gear. If you cannot trust and prefer not to, it will not be held against you, but you cannot stay.”

“Where are they going?” The boy speaking, distinct for his bronzed skin and long fall of sleek black hair such as many a maid would envy, crossed his arms before his chest. ‘Twas not anger she read on his face but wariness.

“The same place as we, Gylmal: Mordor. They will merely be traveling separately,” Saldís said.

That seemed to mollify him. Truly, a number looked happier, but as she waited for the Novices to choose their destiny, one, then two peeled away to collect his—or her—belongings. With each, she felt a pang, for she knew the dark future before them. Where they went, there would be no Saldís attempting to redeem them so that they would never set foot in Mordor.

Nay, these would end up in that dark land with none to trust. None to care when it was no longer just Weapons and Arcanists likely out for them, but orcs and wargs. Orcs, she knew, had a taste for man-flesh, and if Sauron’s armies were anything like she imagined, the small group defecting her ranks before her eyes would soon discover a new kind of horror. 

The Houses had not protected them from one another. She didn’t believe they’d do a thing against Sauron’s other creatures.

In the end, eighteen departed, and Saldís let them go. One hundred and eight remained, one hundred and eight who dared to think different thoughts, consider different ways. 

_So be it._


	50. Help and Choices

_**Abad Kilmîn, the Red Mountains  
18 March TA 3019** _

Nori’s missive heavy in her coat pocket, Dís burned with righteous indignation, boundless and terrible. Before her sat not one king but two. A perverse stroke of luck, or so she’d thought at the onset. Now, she gnashed her teeth together and listened as the Ironfist king, Dolgar, listed in a patronizing tone all the reasons why what happened beyond the Orocarni was of no importance to four dwarf Houses calling the Red Mountains home.

By Mahal, she’d not slogged her way through miles and miles of filthy, stinking red sludge, beset by clouds of insects thirsty for blood, to be treated as a foolish miss too dumb to know her own place. She was Dís, daughter of Thrain, daughter of Thror, and she’d had a bellyful of Ironfist xenophobia and superiority.

To think Pallando had pushed himself to collapse to get them here, only for this to be their reception!

Her blue eyes shifted to the younger king, he who had to this point been silent. King Vestin was horribly young for the burden of a crown—only seventy-one years old, younger than her son Kíli when he’d died—and the Blacklock advisers clustered around him vocally sided with King Dolgar. 

By Mahal, she was too exhausted for this. It had been days since she and her friends had permitted themselves sleep. 

‘Twas as Dolgar’s thick fingers waved her off, dismissing her as if she was a servant, that she snapped. With brows and chin low, she slowly stalked forward two paces. 

“We are through, Lady Dís,” Dolgar said with a small frown. With the prematurely gray hair that was the Ironfist hallmark, fair skin, and green eyes, he was a handsome dwarf, she thought. Until he opened his mouth. “Go back to your Halls. You Longbeards must learn not to be so discontent with your lot.”

_Bam!_ There went her temper, flaming hotter. “Discontent?” she said softly.

The Blacklock king, Vestin, shot a minute frown at the other sovereign dominating the conversation in his throne room, but when one of his adviser’s touched his wrist, the lad subsided. 

“Aye, discontent,” Dolgar said, pounding one overly large fist upon the arm of the throne he’d been provided. “You lost Khazad-dum in your weakness, then Erebor. Your beggared king-in-exile came pleading for aid…”

That. Was. It. “My brother made a mistake,” she began.

“He was a fool!”

“Aye, he was,” she shouted back. “For he believed there was strength to be found in Aulë’s children. For believing dwarves,” she said with crooked arm, “would never turn their back on their kindred. Do not _dare_ mock my brother,” she fumed. “You, who have sit in your safe Halls for countless generations as others held the Shadow at bay. Do you really believe yourselves so safe here? Because none have yet trespassed in your lands?”

She snorted in derision. “I will leave, for I ascertain that what courage and perseverance Aulë bestowed has weakened in the absence of tribulation among his children of the Orocarni. It took thousands of years filled with constant battling against evil to send the elves of Middle Earth into retreat across the Sea. Here, it took naught more than a word. Aye, I will leave. It seems if the world is to be saved, it will again be men and elves that will see it done.”

Dís ignored Dolgar as he jumped to his feet with a wordless roar. To Dár, she said, “We head into the Wild Wood.”

“Wild Wood?” Dár repeated, eyebrows lifting.

“We’re going to find the Avari.”

Her hunter nodded shortly, his countenance one of determination. “So be it, lassie. I’m with you.”

“Avari?” Dolgar sputtered.

Dís bestowed her most scathing glare upon the Ironfist king, one honed by generations of Durins before her. “The heart of elves has not yet failed. Though dwarves quake in their Halls, the elves of the Wild Wood may not. But know this. If Mordor crushes us, Sauron’s forces will spread like a plague. You will have time. Perhaps decades. But eventually, you will have thousands upon thousands of orcs upon your doorsteps.”

“Let them come,” Dolgar snarled. “We are safe within our Halls.”

Dís granted him a brittle smile. “Did you not listen? The Black Númenóreans ride in his service. How long, King Dolgar, will your iron gates and mighty Halls stand when an army of sorcerers arrives?” She laughed with scorn. “They will bring your mountains down upon your heads. There will be no escape. By the time you finally recognize your peril, it will be far, far too late for you to act.”

With Dár walking proudly at her side, Dís stormed from the elegant onyx and obsidian throne room, ignoring Dolgar’s angry insults in her wake. She had naught more to say to him. Dís intended to pause only long enough to collect their exhausted wizard before removing herself. 

“Wait!” 

‘Twas not Dolgar. For that reason alone, she turned around. To her shock, it was the young Blacklock king, Vestin, who’d spoken, and it was he who rose from his ebony throne. “Wait,” Vestin repeated.

When his advisers began to object, the dwarf king’s hand flashed out, stopping them. Like all his kindred, the Blacklock possessed a swarthy complexion and dark, brooding eyes. His black hair was left free—braids were not used for status in the Orocarni, Dís knew—and his beard was contained in a single fat braid that fell to his mid-chest. Hair and beard were dotted with orange sapphires, and when the lad’s head tilted so that he could gaze upon the large, single-bladed ax affixed to the wall—an ax like none Dís had ever seen before with a gleaming black blade—she noted that his black cloak had runes upon it, all them in brilliant orange thread. 

_Fidelity. Honor. Courage,_ they read. 

“A king,” the young dwarf said in ringing tones, “protects his people. He does all to serve them, be it ever so humble.” Dark eyes met Dís’s. “Your brother was an example to us all, one we in our arrogance despised.” His unexpectedly potent glare silenced the shocked Ironfist sovereign. “He labored as a blacksmith, taking any work to be found. Aye,” he told Dís, “rumor of it found its way here.” Then addressing his entire audience, he added, “When the opportunity came for the exiled Longbeard king to restore his people their home, by Frathrasir’s boots, he took it. He gave his _life_ for it.”

Those dark eyes scanned none but his fellow Blacklocks. “We are of the Khazâd. _We_ should have aided him. It is a stain on _our_ honor that we let our kindred fight alone, that we left any of our people as wandering exiles.”

A hush fell over the room when the lad again surveyed the black ax. Then a mighty gasp sounded as King Vestin reached up and jerked Gorim’s black ax from the wall. 

Dís found herself in awe and thrumming with pride for her people, for dwarves of all Houses and clans. This, she vowed, was a king. One of Thorin’s ilk. Of her father’s. And aye, what Fíli would have been. 

“No more. The Blacklocks hide from _no one,”_ Vestin shouted, the ax lifted above his head. “And should Mordor’s stench spread, we will fall as dwarves, not hiding like goblins. We will no longer sit idle while others sacrifice their lives, be they in ever so distant lands.”

The lad descended the dais with shoulders back and a noble carriage. His people—all but the advisers, Dís noted—knelt with deep respect, the looks upon their faces saying this outburst, this show of leadership, was new…and welcome. Aye, they looked upon their young king with pride. 

“Hestin, with me,” the King of the Blacklocks commanded, and another Blacklock fell in behind him. Without a backward glance, Vestin strode towards Dís, inclined his head in silent invitation to join him, and walked out of the hall. 

Dís followed. By Mahal, if she’d had any kinswomen left, if Gloin had sired a daughter instead of a son, Dís vowed she’d be plotting on the spot to drag the girl across the world to meet this young king. The Blacklocks had been blessed, and she hoped they appreciated it. 

The moment they were closeted away in a large study—Dowager Queen Sissal joining them—Vestin gestured Dís to a seat. “Now, then. Tell me, my lady, how can the Blacklocks be of service to the line of Durin?”

Dís did just that. 

Then at the end, when Vestin’s right hand dwarf, Hestin, prepared to show Dís and Dár to their guest quarters where Pallando, she was told, was already dead to the world, she remembered Nori’s other request. 

Unable to believe she was asking the question, she said with a dry voice, “Tell me, King Vestin. I don’t suppose you have some dwarrow that wouldn’t mind changing a bunch of nappies?”

OoOoOo

__  
**The Dead City  
19 March TA 3019**

Dori drew his steed up short. With heart in throat, he fell from the saddle and took a few stumbling steps forward, letting the reins dangle as his horse dropped its weary head. 

_Nay. Nay, nay, nay._ He’d arrived too late, curse his beard. 

His hands balled at his sides while in the distance, he watched Minas Morgul’s eerily luminescent gates open as a dozen horses and one _emala_ clattered across the white stone bridge spanning the foul waters of the Morgulduin. As the tall gates parted, the dark maw leading into the heart of the Dead City was revealed. Chills raced down his spine, for though ‘twas day, the entire city was wreathed in such shadow as to look the dead of night. From within, a spine-tingling screech broke the silence, and shudders shook his frame. 

“Mahal,” he whispered thickly. 

‘Twas almost too far to see it clearly, but Dori was sure that two of the bodies among the others were shorter. Stockier. 

One by one, the travelers vanished into the terrible city. Dori did not move. He could not. His feet felt married to the uneven and broken pavement stones of the ancient road. A sinister wind raced by, and still Dori remained there, eyes locked upon the foreboding gates as they creaked to a close.

_Boom._ Such finality, there was, as the gates sealed shut. Dori finally turned, tripping over his own two feet as he retraced his steps to the horse. He blindly collected the reins, then with the back of one arm, he mopped the tears tracking down his cheeks. 

Mahal. ‘Twas too much to bear so swiftly on the heels of learning Ori’s fate. Dori’s shoulders bowed. 

The strongest dwarf of them all, he’d once been called. How he took pride in that, often scooping up Bilbo when danger drew near. 

All for naught. 

Dori tugged upon his beard. He was done losing loved ones. Aye, he was.

_They’re not dead yet, ye old fool,_ he scolded himself. But what to do?

_Wait,_ a part of him suggested. He didn’t know for what. For an idea. For one o’ the Company—they said they would head north once Caeldor was taken care of to join the Gray Company, and the Harad Road was the most logical of paths. 

_If the Black Company lives._

Dori refused to entertain _that_ nonsense. Nori, at least, would not die on him. He wouldn’t dare. By Durin, if that rascal so much as singed a hair on his head, Dori would give him the thrashing of his life.

Sniffing back residual tears, Dori straightened his shoulders. His chin lifted. For now, he’d go back to the crossroads a few miles behind him where the Harad Road intersected this nameless and doomed byway leading into Minas Morgul. From there, he’d keep watch—there was little chance of Bifur and Bofur escaping through the city’s gates on their own, so he’d keep vigil nearer the crossroads.

If any of the Company passed this way, Dori intended to catch them.

OoOoOo

Bofur stifled a shudder as the gates clanged shut. What in Mahal’s name had they done to get the entire city to glow corpse-white like that? ‘Twas ghoulish, and more, the horrible light failed to provide the least illumination. Nay, the streets seemed all the darker for it. The shadows, deeper.

Tied to the saddle as he was, he could do nothing to stop his progression deeper into the terrible city, the horses’ shod hooves clattering out ominously loud. On either side, structures loomed, each with empty, windowless eyes and a truly frightening visage. 

Why it was so, Bofur couldn’t put his finger on. He’d not ever been so petrified in his life, and ‘twas all he could do to feign boredom. (A dwarf had to have some pride, after all.) He even yawned into his shoulder, content when one o’ the Corsairs—a mite wide-eyed himself—boggled at him. Bofur winked in return.

At street level, a few dozen orcs and goblins scurried about with abnormal silence. The imposing city felt empty but for them and the heavy feeling of Something. 

_Aye, that’s clear as mud._ Yet he could not find better words for it. There was an old evil here, and Bofur’s shudder won free as he clapped eyes upon the monstrous stone figures lining the roofs above.

“Nice place you have here,” Bofur managed to say in a bright voice. “Love the ambiance. Truly a…”

Two of the Corsairs glared back at him, hands on the hilts of their swords as if tempted to run him through when that Something bloomed heavier and heavier. Though he twisted about with wide eyes, heart racing like one o’ Radagast’s freakish rabbits, Bofur saw nothing to explain the terror eclipsing all else. The street seemed to darken.

When Valkthor scowled back at him, a bead of sweat trickling its way down the misbegotten wretch’s face, for once Bofur found himself in full agreement. 

Speaking here? Not a wise thing to do. He clamped his lips shut.

OoOoOo

Bifur heard his cousin’s ill-chosen jest, aye he did, but he could not find it in himself to respond in kind. With each fearful pound of his heart, he dreaded what would come next. He prayed his daughter never learned of her uncle and adâd’s fate, for it would destroy his Gêdul.

 _If the men haven’t already done that._ ‘Twas a thought that the evil saturating the air seemed to magnify until it drove through his heart like a jagged dagger. 

_Nay,_ he stubbornly persisted. Thannor had her. Nori protected her. His lass was a survivor, a Weapon, and she’d be fine.   
Aye, so long as she never learned of Bofur and Bifur’s fates, she’d be alright. 

As his gaze lifted higher to study the city so akin to its gleaming sister across the Anduin, ‘twas plain to him he and Bofur had ample reason to fear, though…for themselves.

OoOoOo

_  
**Harondor**  
_

“How is she doing, Master Dwarf?”

Nori lay on his belly upon a slight rise, filthy as the day was long and Finnur’s spyglass to his eye. At Orodon’s breathy question, Nori permitted the metal tube to drop into the sea of green grass beneath him. He rubbed his face. “She’s not sleeping.”

Orodon collected the spyglass and did some looking of his own. 

Nori smoothed one finger across his braided eyebrow, back and forth, back and forth. Durin’s ax, he knew what drove her, and Mahal knew Nori was proud of his stubborn niece—she was a Longbeard, and that was the truth—but he’d seen the bursts of anger upon her face followed by flashes of uncertainty. Aye, something was occurring in that head o’ hers, and Nori cursed himself roundly for not thinking his way ‘round to being able to be with her. 

Orodon’s hand alighted on his shoulder. “She’s done wonders training those Novices,” the Ranger said.

“Aye,” Nori agreed with a weary sigh. “Mayhap too well.” Little did they need those children _more_ dangerous. What if they turned on her? Had she considered that? Nay! 

Orodon’s teeth flashed. “Perhaps. But only if they serve Mordor. Have faith, Master Nori. Both Saldís and Anuon are working with those children, and more of the Novices are looking to our friends with trust. Saldís and Anuon might just succeed at this.”

Nori hoped so. They’d already entered Harondor, lands contested over the years by the Haradrim and Gondor. The Mountains of Shadow, Mordor’s southern border, could be seen in the distance—jagged, blackened peaks that looked more akin to a blackened collection of fangs than the majestic mountains Nori was accustomed to. Since the first time he’d clapped eyes upon them many decades back, they’d given him what men would call the willies. Mordor’s northern mountain range, the Ash Mountains, were not much better. 

Soon, Saldís would lead her Novices onto the Harad Road, Nori thought. ‘Twas deserted from what he’d seen of it between breaks in the hills to the west. Too soon, she’d reach the Dead City. 

By then, Nori would intervene. His niece was not going near that accursed place. 

That, he grumbled to himself, was final.

OoOoOo

_Three days._

‘Twas too soon, Saldís thought. Eyes dry and itchy from lack of sleep slid across the horizon until she saw the tell-tale orange glow illuminating a spot between the Mountains of Shadow. _Barad-Dur,_ whispered the kernel of ice that had taken up residence in her heart.

Three days. 

She tore her gaze from the sinister light, one hand finding the hilt of her scimitar. Before her, the Novices were teamed up in groups of ten, battling each other as the sky darkened with night’s arrival. 

Mahal, but the last week was a blur. Saldís had run herself ragged, and in that, she wasn’t alone. Her Novices were fiercely determined to arrive at Mordor’s gates “ready”. What they imagined for, she didn’t wish to dwell on. She did not want to believe they dreamed of raiding innocent villages, raping and pillaging. 

Though Hilliz did not approve, she’d taken to pressing her troops harder and harder to think for themselves, discussing scenarios as they sat in a large group eating their evening fare. Aye, to her assessing eye, Hilliz had severe reservations about what she was doing, for she taught the teenagers to even question the Duumvirate, though that was done in a roundabout fashion. Never directly. Never with outright treason, but she skirted the edges dangerously. 

She had to. There was no time for a slower approach. 

There were whispers. At least, Saldís thought she detected whispers. She heard nothing openly, but ‘twas in the way some Novices would fall silent when she drew near. _They plot against me,_ she found herself considering more than once, only to have to bring herself up short. 

There was no reason to believe any plotted, and truly, when would they have the time? The teenagers, too, were worn out. 

_Akhora,_ she reluctantly attributed the unsettling feeling, but she had no real proof. Just as likely, her own fatigue and inner fears were causing her to flinch at shadows that did not exist, and she growled at herself as she fought them off. 

Aye, three days left. Soon, she’d have to confront her Novices with blatant and hard truths. One day, maybe two. She dared not wait until they reached Minas Morgul. 

Then, she would learn her fate, and that of her friends. Then, the Novices would either set their faces towards Mordor…or a new future.

Her eyes lifted at a sudden increase in illumination. The moon had worked its way through the heavy blanket of dark clouds overhead to briefly grace them with its light. Crickets chirruped in the background, a familiar serenade, and the lure of a nice pallet called to her.

Yielding to that temptation was out of the question. Too much yet to do, and not enough time. 

_I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Or once Mordor falls._ Aye. Sleep now was too costly.

“Ne-Hilliz? Take over,” she told the man who’d rarely left her side the last week. ‘Twas the truth, she was chafing. Would he not go away for ten, Mahal blight them, minutes? 

“Ib-Akhora?” The dark haired man frowned. Was that suspicion?

Bah! She couldn’t tell anymore. 

“Take over,” she repeated shortly. “I want twenty more minutes of drilling, then the Novices may seek their bedrolls.” Raising her voice as she walked away, hoping to avert an argument, she called, “Novice Yahzin! With me.”

Thannor’s new daughter jogged over with brows high, but she asked no questions, merely walked by Saldís’s side until they reached where Finnin and Erynor were situated. With zero fuss, Saldís collected her nearby saddlebag and dug through it until she found jerky. She had no desire to cook up more substantial fare. 

With Yahzin fidgeting nervously at her side, Saldís squatted before her “prisoners” and said, “Thank you, cousin.”

Yahzin startled. 

Erynor too, Saldís noted. “Cousin?” the Ranger whispered. 

Had no one told him then? _Likely not. Too many ears._ Before Erynor pursued the subject, Saldís silenced him by shoving a bit of jerky into his mouth. With a tired smile, she said, “Thannor has adopted Yahzin into his household. You are looking at Berenor’s new sister.”

The blond Ranger’s brows lifted. He chewed his food, his head tilting to eye the girl in question. Saldís offered the next bit of jerky to Finnin, feeding the two the only outer excuse she had to be with them. 

She needed to be with them.

Her dwarf studied her and around his mouthful managed, “You’re well, Dushin-Mizim?”

Again, Yahzin seemed to startle. _Enough of that._ ‘Twas time to take another risk. To the girl, “You know the Dunedain and dwarves came to rescue whomever they could.”

Yahzin’s head dipped slowly. “Should we be speaking of this?” she whispered.

Saldís shrugged with all the fatigue in her body. “Three days,” she said again, her gaze drifting to Mordor’s peaks. Berúthiel’s cats, one should not be able to see them in the dead of night, but she could despite the moon abandoning them once more. “I’ll have to make my appeal soon.”

Finnin’s boot nudged her hip. “Talk to me, my Saldís,” he insisted the moment he’d swallowed. “You’re not sleeping.”

“Can’t,” she answered simply, keeping her voice low and baring the burdens she carried to him by her expression. _“She_ has been busy tempting me with compromise. If I but bend, I can do more good,” she said with heavy and bitter irony.

Both males stiffened, and Yahzin frowned, confusion creasing her forehead. 

By Mahal, Saldís wished for nothing more than to lean against her dwarf and feel his arms around her. ‘Twas not to be. “Just watch me, aye?” Saldís asked.

The two nodded in unison, but it was Finnin’s piercing gaze that comforted her. Aye, he’d keep both eyes on her, and she knew it. ‘Twas a different type of guarding than likely he’d counted upon when joining this mission back in Ered Luin, but Saldís trusted him. His dip of the chin let her take her first deep breath in days. 

_*You matter,*_ she signed, the words inadequate for all she truly longed to say. But from the way his gaze heated, the dwarf knew what she meant.

Saldís shook herself, then she fed the two captives additional morsels. And if she used the opportunity to place a palm to Finnin’s cheek, a palm he kissed in return, none saw it but Erynor and Yahzin. 

Knowing the time short, and prolonging the interaction unwise, she got to the crux of her reason for seeking the two out. “I’ll make my plea to the Novices before we reach the Cross-roads. Should we survive the aftermath, where do we go next? Caeldor is gone…” She tossed Yahzin an affirmative nod at the girl’s sharp inhale. “…but from the snatches Anuon has had a chance to share, Hlein leads the young Novices and women from the Den to Umbar. Do we join them?”

OoOoOo

Yahzin’s chest tightened, and she blinked back a sudden surge of tears. She’d been stunned at Akhora’s actions with the blond dwarf, yet as the woman interacted with both prisoners, that had been replaced by a pang of unexpected jealousy.

Akhora cared about these males, and they cared back.

_Isn’t that what she promised?_ What was it Akhora had said that fateful night? That she offered a life with laughter, safety, and love? 

How Yahzin had scorned the notion. How she now yearned for it. Watching the dwarf kiss Akhora’s hand, Yahzin _hungered_ for it. 

She lost track of the conversation, her focus on Akhora. At last, Yahzin believed every word the woman had uttered. Finally. Completely. Akhora had spoken the truth, and she and her team had truly come to save Yahzin and the other Novices. 

_Over._ The years or eluding groping hands, sly daggers in the night, and horrible Tests…they were coming to an end. 

_If the other Novices do not kill her._ Yahzin’s attention panned to her left, homing in upon where her fellow Novices battled over a patch of ground in mock battle. She’d been among them but minutes before, thrilling in the different feel of the training. 

She’d been a part of a team, and it had been unlike anything she’d experienced before. _It will work,_ she concluded. With help, Akhora’s attempt to call these… She almost referred to them all and herself as Black Númenórean Novices, but with a clenched jaw, she changed her mind. 

Barhador’s words returned to her. She didn’t know what it meant to be descended from the line of kings as he’d claimed. And she didn’t know any other way of living. 

_No, we are Ib-Akhora’s Novices,_ she decided. Akhora’s and perhaps (for Yahzin) Thannor’s. A final decision. A commitment.

_I’m not going back._ No matter how events unfolded, Yahzin would fight beside the commander. She was going to claim the life Akhora promised or die trying.

OoOoOo

Finnin watched his lass closely, at turns honored by the trust she bestowed upon him and worried. Akhora tempted her into compromise, did she? Well, Finnin had a thing or two to say about that.

 _You’ll fail,_ he promised that Akhora-side of his lassie. He’d not relinquish his Saldís. If she needed him to watch, then by Mahal, he’d be watching. Had she alerted Anuon to her struggle as well? 

“Take them north,” Erynor said, distracting Finnin from his thoughts. “The Gray Company must be somewhere near Minas Tirith. There, you will at the very least gain word of them. You must take the Novices to Aragorn.”

The wee Novice watched Finnin’s Saldís intently, and to Finnin’s mind, the lass seemed more resolute the longer Erynor and Saldís spoke. What it was that had decided things for her, he didn’t know, but if he read her aright, Yahzin was firmly on their side. 

A good thing, for they could surely use all the help they could get. 

“That takes us through possible battle lines,” Saldís said. “Minas Tirith is certain to be Sauron’s first target.” Beside Saldís, Yahzin nodded silently.

“It is the first bastion of men,” Erynor said simply. 

“I will _not_ lead these Novices into war,” Saldís hissed, flashing to full fury. 

“It is where Aragorn will be,” Erynor answered without heat. “It is where their people will be. The Gray Company. No one is suggesting they fight.”

Saldís glared daggers at the Ranger a heartbeat longer. Then she rubbed her face with an exhale. “Orc spit.” Dropping her hands she said, “I’m sorry, Erynor. I knew better.”

“You’re not sleeping,” Finnin stated a second time, his voice kept light by sheer force of will, for that display of temper—on one of The Brothers, the Rangers his Saldís adored so—disturbed him. Aye, it could be exhaustion turning her words sharp, but it could be Akhora planting doubts in her mind.

“You told us how Kimilzor found you,” Erynor said as if she’d not just lashed out at him with her tongue. “Blood calls to blood. We need these Novices under Aragorn’s protection. He has ties with Lothlorien and Rivendell. The elves’ magics would protect these children from any seeking to track them by magic.”

Saldís stiffened. Her head whipped to glare at Mordor’s peaks. Aye, and she hadn’t thought of that. Neither had Finnin. Little good to free these young ones from this life if that life turned around and hunted them down once more. 

“The lad’s right,” Finnin offered. As her attention turned to him, Finnin added, “We cannot leave them open to retaliation. They’ve endured enough. I’m thinking they are entitled to some peace. If not with the elves, then within our mountains. We cannot let these Black Númenóreans reclaim them.”

A hesitation. A brief glance to each Finnin and Erynor in turn. 

Then his warrior lassie inclined her head. “So be it. We ride hard in search of Aragorn.” Then with a quiet gratitude, _“Dolzekh menu.”_ (Thank you.)


	51. A Bearded Ball of Fury

_**20 March TA 3019  
The Cross-roads, Ithilien** _

The only warning Dori had was the muffled sound of many thuds, rhythmic and rapid. Whatever the source, there were a lot of them, and Dori chewed upon his mustache in indecision. 

_Hiding here does Bifur and Bofur no good._ He scooped up Bifur’s spear and Saldís’s scimitar and eased out of the heavy overgrowth hiding his small camp from the world. Dori’s pilfered mount tugged upon the rope Dori had tied to a tree. Its ears flicked around and its eyes rolled, but thank Mahal, it did not neigh. 

Dori crept closer to the Cross-roads, keeping low. Peering around a feathery frond, he scanned southward. 

_Bless my beard._ The large birds could only be his niece’s _emala._ And atop of them, men dressed in uniform beige, all of them with cloth wrapped around their heads and (most) their faces. Dori’s grip upon his two weapons tightened. Could these, then, be some of the accursed Black Númenóreans that had dared hurt Dori’s niece so?

They drew nearer, and Dori’s chin jutted out, his lips thinning, to see two bound, blindfolded and gagged men in their midst. ‘Twas only when they were almost on top of them that he identified the closer of the two: Calenor. 

Mahal. Had the Company failed? Were his friends dead, then? His brother? 

Dori slowly stood, absolute fury taking him. No one hurt his brother, his niece, and friends and escaped his wrath. No one.

OoOoOo

Ib-Lohrzor darted a glance over his shoulder, lips hard. Had it been a mirage, a trick of the desert sun, or had he really seen a man pursuing them the day before? Instinct said they were hunted, and though tempted to turn around and confront the enemy, he kept thinking of all the misfortune that had befallen Caeldor in the weeks leading up to his departure.

If some enemy had discovered them, that single silhouette he’d seen could be but a precursor to a much larger force. One after his prisoners. 

With the Cross-roads in sight, he spurred his tired _emala_ on. They were almost to their destination. None would reach them behind the gates of the Dead City.

But then, as the first _emala_ turned eastward, a bearded ball of fury exploded into their midst. _“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-menu!”_

A boar spear pierced the first _emala_ through, and before Lohzor could do more than draw his own weapon in preparation of a charge, the spear lifted bird and rider off their feet in an arc over the head of a diminutive…dwarf? The gray haired dervish yanked the spear free from the slain _emala_ with one tremendous jerk before countering the downward sweep of another Weapon’s scimitar with a scimitar of his own. 

Lohrzor was about to command a segment of his Weapons to take the prisoners onward, to leave the dwarf to a select few, when an arrow took down the Weapon to his right. He-Bollhir’s back arched with the force of the impact, then the young Weapon toppled lifeless from his _emala._ The bird shied away, squawking with wings elevated.

Lohrzor’s head whipped around. There, standing alone in the center of the road with two _emala_ pecking docilely at the ground behind him, stood a tall man with shaggy brown hair. One by one, he fired his arrows into the Black Númenóreans’ midst, and what he aimed at, he hit. 

“Take the prisoners onward!” Lohrzor bellowed, snatching up his own bow from where he’d lashed it to his saddle. Stringing it took but a beat of the heart, then with his _emala_ prancing nervously beneath him—Eye curse it, Lohrzor would gut the animal when his foes were dealt with—he took careful aim, only to miss when another _emala,_ speared by the dwarf, collapsed against his own, jostling it. 

Out of one eye, he knew when Ne-Vozile—he holding the reins to one of the prisoners’ _emala_ —spurred his bird onward. _“Berenor!”_ he heard the tall man roar, and the auburn-haired prisoner’s head whipped around. 

So. This enemy _was_ after Lohrzor’s prize. With an evil smile, he said, “Go, Ne-Nirrin. Ensure Vozile takes _Berenor_ out of this man’s reach.”

The female Weapon smirked and with a salute of her scimitar, skirted around the cluster of Weapons attempting to take down the dwarf. 

“He-Jhoval…”

The other Weapon was in motion, taking the other prisoner with him. But as he tried to pass the dwarf, the miserable creature launched his spear with enough force to punch through the other Weapon’s chest and carry the man’s body four yards before it hit the ground. 

“You’re not taking Calenor,” the dwarf snarled as it plowed through Weapons like Novices, its scimitar flashing. Lohrzor had seen the damage a scimitar could do from the time he left the nursery, but in the hands of a dwarf, he gained a new appreciation. 

Parrying the dwarf’s strikes did not work—they powered through the parries. And though the dwarf suffered injuries, the furious creature paid no attention to his body’s ails. In less time than should have been possible, the dwarf had the black-haired prisoner ripped from his saddle and on the ground behind him where the dwarf then took up position, protecting the man.

“Stay put, laddie,” the dwarf growled. “They’ll not touch you again.”

More arrows flew. Lohrzor snarled, yanking his _emala_ about. A quick assessment. A decision. “Leave them! Fly! To the Dead City!”

Better to arrive with one prisoner than none.

OoOoOo

Thannor raced after the enemy, flashing by Dori and Calenor at breakneck speed.

To no avail. The ghoulish gates to Minas Morgul opened, and a small squad of orcs and men emerged. Thannor hauled back on his _emala’s_ reins, swinging the bird around with clenched jaw and burning eyes. 

His son vanished inside the cursed city, and there was nothing Thannor could do. Nothing but stare, his heart pounding painfully within his chest. Every fiber of him wished to charge, to take down as many of Sauron’s forces between himself and his son as he could until all breath left his body. 

But his death would not aid his son. 

With a last glare, knowing himself defeated— _For now,_ he promised himself—he goaded his _emala_ into its ground-eating lope, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly to watch for pursuit.

It didn’t come.

OoOoOo

_  
**Mordor**  
_

Orcs. From horizon to horizon, the land overflowed with the filth. 

Bifur sat stiffly upon his terrified mount, his bound hands balled into fists. _Mahal,_ he kept thinking, boggling at the sheer numbers of armed foes he saw. This, he feared, would spell the end of all he knew. 

This horde would overrun the defenses of each kingdom in its path, even mighty Erebor. Aye, it would take time—the Longbeards’ stronghold would not fall quickly, by Durin—but fall, it would. To starvation if naught else, for holed up in their mountain, their food stores would dwindle. Aye. They would fall.

Images played through his mind, tormenting him. Erebor gutted, Gloin and his beloved wife and lad among the dwarf bodies littering her floors. He saw Bombur and his lad, Bjartur, fighting and dying before Thorin’s Hall. Dwalin, leading a hopeless charge with so many dear friends at his back. 

_Not this,_ he begged the Valar. _Ye cannot let it come to this._ By Mahal’s lifted hammer, things looked hopeless.

The Corsairs to either side of Bifur rode in silence, their spines as stiff as Bifur’s missing spear. Sweat dripped down their faces, and he suspected it only in part due to the heat stifling this land. _Aye, and I’ll bet they’re regretting this assignment now._ ‘Twas one thing to ride to war with the lure of riches gleaming in the eye. ‘Twas another to be staring the outcome in the face and realize what success would bring to their homes and lands.

Ib-Valkthor rode at the head of their party. Bifur didn’t know who the louse had consulted before they’d exited the Dead City—all he’d glimpsed was a black-robed figure whose very presence oozed dread—but the Black Númenórean led them northward at a swift clip, his Eye pendant and onyx earrings likely the only deterrent keeping the bestial orcs from turning on them and devouring Valkthor’s party—dwarf, Corsairs and all—like a pack of starving canines set loose in the chicken coop. 

Bifur’s horse stumbled, the skin at its withers trembling. He tried as best he could to pat the animal, in complete agreement with it. Of all the places he’d expected life to carry him, this eventuality had never occurred to the toymaker. 

If this was the price for having his daughter back, he accepted it. _My wee Gêdul. It seems I may not be returning this time. You stay strong, lassie, you hear? You let Finnin love you and let Dori fuss over you._

Aye, his friends and family would not let her wallow in grief or destroy herself with guilt and anger. Of that, he was confident.

Onward they journeyed through the dark and parched land. With each step of his horse’s hooves, Barad-Dur grew larger along with its unnerving Eye. Moved about, that flaming orb did, its pupil never quiet. Bifur didn’t know Valkthor’s intended destination, but he got a sinking suspicion as their path carried them closer and closer to that accursed tower.

A turn to the west upon a patch o’ crumbled road brought exquisite relief. Bifur saw his cousin’s shoulders slump and Bofur’s hands lift to rub his face. Aye, Bifur thought in full agreement. Whatever their fate, avoiding _that_ one was cause to celebrate.

How long they journeyed, whether it was day or night, Bifur didn’t know, but at last, they reached their destination—a blackened, stone block structure that had seen many an unkind century. Perched as it was upon a slight rise, the edifice had a right clear view of a massive wall blocking the northern pass between Mordor’s mountains. 

_The Isenmouthe,_ he named the spike-tipped barrier a bit numbly. 

His attention returned to the structure they’d been brought to. ‘Twas three or four stories tall, as best he could see in the ever-present gloom, with each consecutive tier smaller than the lower. Full of pointed spires, it was, each taller than a man, and more of the macabre stone monsters perched upon its corners. 

Bifur inhaled deeply. This was it. Here, he’d learn his fate, and unless a miracle was in the offing, ‘twas here he’d meet his end. _Let us go down as dwarves,_ he prayed. _Stubborn and defiant to the end. Let us make such an ending as to do our people proud._

Orcs pushed Corsairs from their path. Their hands dragged Bifur from the saddle, and Bofur too based upon his cousin’s aborted yelp. Though he tried to keep his feet, the orcs’ rough treatment had Bifur stumbling as they dragged him towards the malevolent building. 

“Do not damage them,” he heard Valkthor snarl. “I went through considerable effort to bring them all this way.”

“Did you, now?”

A hushed stillness descended at the sound of the horrendous voice. Bifur forced his shoulders not to hunch as his gaze lifted to the top of the stairs of the building before them. 

‘Twas a man, he thought with some shock. One grotesquely changed with skin pale as snow and teeth elongated and yellowed. Worse were the bones in the male’s face. Wrong, they were. Not terribly, but instead of making the man more mannish, the effect was the opposite. 

A knot of uneasiness formed in Bifur’s gut as he took in the black armor the creature wore, coupled with a tall black helm. When the misshapen man’s eyes alighted upon Bifur, Bifur was unnerved to find them roiling pits of darkness.

What fell sorcery had produced this?

Valkthor, Bifur noted, put on a brave front, but ‘twas all it was—a front. A minute tremor in the Arcanist’s hands betrayed him as he bowed before what Bifur presumed to be a person of ranking within Sauron’s armies.

By Mahal, the black-armored being looked dead, yet he breathed. Nay, this was no wraith nor even a Ringwraith. This man lived…whatever he was. 

“My lord Kimilzor,” Valkthor greeted, and Bifur jerked. _This_ was his lassie’s sire? _This_ was the foul villain who had dared to steal Bifur’s daughter from him and force her into the Dark Lord’s service? 

Fear left him in that moment. No matter what this man might do to him, Bifur celebrated the opportunity, be it ever so slim, to exact vengeance. Finally, the knave was within reach. Before he died, Bifur would take this monster with him. ‘Twas a promise, and Bifur intended to keep it. 

A few yards away, Bofur’s eyes slid sideways until they met Bifur’s. His cousin had caught that, too. A silent communication. A dip of the chin. Aye, Bofur would ensure Bifur got his chance. 

“That name,” Kimilzor said, “no longer applies. I am the Mouth, Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-Dur.” Then in a unnerving voice, “What business have you in my lands, Ib-Valkthor, Liaison to the Corsairs of Umbar?”

‘Twas then Bifur’s cousin showed his true spine, one forged of pure mithril. He clucked his tongue, “Not to be interrupting, but as there is no Umbar anymore, I’m not thinking that title would be valid.” As the…Mouth’s…black eyes turned his way, Bofur gulped audibly, yet that smile remained on his lips. “It fell whilst Valkthor was away, or so I heard.”

_Mahal, Bofur,_ Bifur thought. Addressing the Mouth was likely the most foolhardy and courageous thing Bifur had ever seen, and that was saying something. 

Valkthor’s green eyes flayed Bofur where he stood. Then with absolute rage painted upon his face, the man’s hand lashed out, and a ball of fire launched from his fingertips like an arrow from a crossbow. 

Bofur’s eyes rounded. Bifur’s heart seized as but inches away from his cousin, the projectile froze in its path. There, it hovered, a molten orb no bigger than Dori’s fist. 

Valkthor paled, and his gaze rushed to the Mouth. The creature chuckled softly, fingers tapping each other before his chest. “Ever so hasty,” he crooned. “I remember that about you.” A flick of one finger, and the fiery ball slammed into an orc, to Bifur’s eye the target chosen at random. 

The rest of the creatures shuffled on their feet. A few retreated a step or two. 

The poisonous smile upon the Mouth’s lips vanished. The pits of darkness that were his eyes turned to stare at Bofur with an intensity that brought gooseflesh to Bifur’s flesh. The sense of danger emanating from the man grew palpable until the very air turned unbreathable. 

With it, light flooded the stoop. The Eye itself burned down upon them. One o’ the Corsairs piddled himself, and Bifur admitted privately he was not far from that himself. He’d never felt such evil. 

“Umbar,” the Mouth crooned. “Tell me what you know, dwarf.”

Bifur’s insane cousin shrugged and turned his fool’s smile on the Mouth. Bifur almost groaned aloud. If’n his cousin met Thorin in Mandos’s Halls in the next minute—a likely outcome to his mind—Bifur fervently hoped their king gave Bofur a firm kick in the arse. ‘Twas one thing to be brave. This was recklessness to its extreme.

“Well now,” Bofur said, and the bead of sweat trickling down his cheek belied his easy tone, “Visiting Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, we were, my kin and me.” A pause. “You do know who Prince…”

“I know who rules Dol Amroth. For now,” the Mouth said coldly. He descended the stairs, one slow step at a time. “What I have not heard, dwarf, is the answer to my Master’s question. Or should I ask your friend instead?”

The Mouth lifted no hand and spoke no words, but Bofur screamed, such a scream of awful pain that Bifur was fighting his guards before he knew it. Nay. _Nay._ Not Bofur. Not his cousin! 

Bifur swung his bound hands like a cudgel, and one orc toppled into his fellows. Clawed hands grappled with him, but Bifur did not stop, even when his cousin’s agonized scream ended and his body collapsed to the ground. 

“Bofur,” he roared. _“Bofur!”_

Then to the Mouth, furious and frustrated that Westron would not pass through his lips, Bifur spat in Khuzdul, “Ye demon-spawned coward! You’ll pay for that, and it’ll be this dwarf who does the collecting!”

The Mouth’s hand, sheathed in a black glove of metal, grabbed Bifur by the throat and lifted. By Mahal, the creature was unnaturally strong, but instead of fearing, Bifur glared venom. This monster might well have just slain Bifur’s best friend. It had taken Bifur’s Saldís.   
Bifur would never cower before Kimilzor-turned-Mouth. Never. 

“Do you wish to join your friend, then?” the Mouth asked. Then with pale lips twisted in to an ugly smile, the Mouth demanded silkily, “Tell me of Umbar.”

Valkthor, the miscreant, said naught even when just below Bifur’s sight, something began to glow. _The glove._ Within heartbeats, the Mouth’s armored glove went from uncomfortably warm to scorching the flesh of Bifur’s neck. Shafts of pain radiated through Bifur’s body.

A moan escaped him, and Bifur grabbed at the Mouth’s arm, attempting to thrust it away, but ‘twas like trying to move Thorin’s statue in Frerin’s Court with his own two hands. All he gained for his efforts were seared palms.

Still, Bifur refused to flinch from the Mouth’s stare, holding it with his own anger. 

The Mouth released him with a shove. Bifur crashed onto his back, chest heaving at the smell of his own burned flesh and pain—such pain—coursing through his body. It felt he’d been flayed entirely, not just his throat, and when he swallowed, the taste of blood coated his tongue. 

Killing Kimilzor, a part of him noted with a wee touch of hysterical humor, was going to be a mite more challenging than he’d thought. 

“…not wise,” he heard Valkthor gloat over the roaring in his ears. 

“And why is that, Ib-Valkthor?” the Mouth crooned. 

Valkthor, Bifur decided once and for all, was the worst kind of fool of them all—a dangerous fool. The proof was in his smug answer, “That dwarf cannot speak Westron or any other tongue but the dwarves’ native language. If you killed the other, you’ll get no information from them. Akhora lives. These dwarves are her family, and it was she who saw to Umbar’s destruction.”

Aye. Valkthor was a right fool.

There was a loud cracking sound, a thump as something fell to the ground, and that was all Bifur knew as consciousness left him.

OoOoOo

_  
**South Ithilien, Gondor**  
_

Ne-Hilliz scrutinized Ib-Akhora through narrowed eyes. 

She had changed. It was barely detectable at first, so much so that he’d missed it when escorting her to Ar-Tagan in Caeldor. Discovering the Arcanist slain, she’d responded just as Ib-Akhora always had with cool authority. She’d methodically issued orders to secure the city and root out any invaders.

But now, he questioned. Her behaviors were different. The cool Akhora that never betrayed a thought or emotion now revealed vulnerability to the Novices. It was only in flashes, and it could be feigned to mold the children—that was her mission as stated—but then he’d caught a glimpse of her hand near that dwarf’s cheek. Had she been threatening the prisoner? Perhaps lifting a blade to the runt’s neck?

Or had it been something of an altogether different nature? 

Jealousy reared its head, for Hilliz had determined that if Akhora was no longer aloof and emotionless, he intended to have her. She was both lethal and (now) expressive, and he found the concoction a heady one. If she cared so for the Novices, he could possibly compel her into his bed merely by threatening one. 

That, or she’d slay him, but he savored the idea of crossing swords with her almost as much as the bedding. 

Yes, she was different. But with the allure came suspicions. How _had_ that dwarf escaped Caeldor? Why had she perched so close to the creature? And why did she insist on feeding both prisoners? 

It was her neck upon the line. That was true as she’d claimed. But he couldn’t dismiss there was more going on than he knew. 

_A year with dwarves, and now a dwarf who keeps appearing at her side._ Caeldor infiltrated by unknown men, men who’d walked among them so flawlessly that the city had been turned against itself. 

“Problem?” Ne-Anin murmured as he stepped to Hilliz’s side. 

Hilliz frowned at the man. _Ah yes. Then we have Ne-Anin. A Weapon I’ve never met before but claims to have served Akhora._ Was the man all he seemed? 

A test was in order. Watching Anin closely, he said, “If you’ve been serving in Mordor, you must have seen Lord Valgor of House Fuinur training with his Weapons. Perhaps you’ve even had the privilege of crossing blades with him yourself? He is unmatched with the halberd he stole from that weakling Swan Knight.”

Anin reacted with only the slightest twitch of one eyebrow. “What have you been sampling, Ne-Hilliz? Lord _Mordhalor,”_ the man stressed, “crosses blades only with enemies. He’d demolish his own House if he did otherwise.” Then turning his head to stare right at him, Anin said, “And it was no halberd he stole. It was a great sword of elvish make and very, very few have seen it. Now, if you are done with your games, why not ask me what it is you really wish to know?”

OoOoOo

Anuon thanked the Valar for the information Saldís had insisted the Dunedain memorize about each of the Six Lords in that moment. Hilliz was suspicious. Whether it was confined to himself or included Saldís remained to be determined.

The bigger man’s dark eyes found their way to Saldís, and the look that crossed Hilliz’s face was not one Anuon liked. “You served with her before.”

“Raiding Agar,” Anuon agreed.

“You cannot be blind. She is changed. She should have executed the Novices who disobeyed her.” Dark eyes returned to Anuon. “And she would have before her absence.”

“Yes, she would have,” Anuon agreed as if the words were reasonable. 

Murdering a child? The Rangers knew Saldís’s past, but hearing details grieved him. If he’d not met the woman himself, if he’d heard her tale through an intermediary, Anuon considered he would have condemned the woman out of hand.

He’d have argued for her execution. An uncomfortable realization.

“You suspect something?” Anuon asked.

Hilliz again eyed Saldís in that disturbingly possessive way. “Perhaps. Keep an eye on her, Ne-Anin. Especially with the prisoners.”

That, Anuon intended to do, but not for the reason Hilliz expected. 

So. Hilliz would be a problem. Not unanticipated, this development, with Saldís teaching the Novices to think for themselves. It would rub any Black Númenórean the wrong way. Up until a week ago, every Novice had been groomed to give unquestioning loyalty and obedience to their masters. 

It was a good thing Saldís planned to speak candidly with the Novices soon. Hilliz, Anuon decided, must be dealt with. 

Before the man gathered the courage to act on the sick lust floating in his eyes


	52. Moment of Decision

_**21 March TA 3019  
Harad Road, South Ithilien, Gondor** _

The Novices were packing their _emala_ and donning their travel gear for the day’s journey when one of the oldest, a sixteen year old with cropped brown-blond curls and blue eyes called over his shoulder, “Ib-Akhora! From the north. One man astride an _emala.”_

The camp stilled, and heads panned to watch as she loped through their midst to where the Novice stood. “Good eyes, Novice Alhez,” she praised, pretending not to notice the way the young man’s chest puffed out. 

“It’s that slave,” black-haired Ciryan burst at the same moment that Saldís recognized the rider as Thannor. “The one _you_ said served House Mordhalor.”

A glance over her shoulder found young Ciryan pointing an accusatory finger at Yahzin. Murmurs rumbled through her troops’ ranks. 

Saldís’s teeth ground together. Thannor’s timing could not have been worse. _Berúthiel’s cats._ She refused to permit her Novices to turn upon one another now. Not after all the progress they’d made. 

Adopting her most austere expression, she said, “Very good, Ciryan. Few would have recognized him.” _And that is Durin’s truth,_ a part of her thought tiredly. “He was, indeed, hiding among the slaves.”

‘Twas time, then. Time to speak to them openly. To bare all and let events fall as they willed. 

Without warning, a blade nicked her throat. A masculine body pressed close from behind, telling her in no uncertain terms who it was threatening her. A number of Novices dropped the reins to their _emala_ and others their gear, each grabbing for his or her sword. 

“Is that so, _Ib_ -Akhora?” Hilliz murmured, his lips brushing her ear and sending waves of revulsion through her. The _ugrad’s_ teeth nipped the tip, and a familiar rage flamed to life in her belly, one that intensified when she noted the ragged tenor to his breaths. 

_No._ If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that the rage was too costly. Every time, it damaged Saldís and empowered Akhora. Besides, she thought, disgust ousting anger from its place, Hilliz she could deal with. He was no bumbling Gart, no, but this time, Saldís was not constrained by ropes, chains or the need to protect Adâd.

“Ib-Akhora?” Alhez ventured, hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“She’s betrayed us,” Hilliz declared loudly. “She—”

“I am no traitor,” she interrupted, ignoring him in favor of her Novices. “I would never betray you.” The truth. Of a sort.

A strange ripping, tearing sound came from behind. Then a hard voice butted in. “Nay, a traitor, she’s never been. Her loyalty’s ours, and these Novices’, and it always will be.” _Finnin._ Her dwarf must have freed himself, ripping ropes like they were parchment. “You lot twisted it for a time, but that’s done. You will never direct her again.” Then in a deeper tone, “Get your filthy paws off of _my_ lassie.”

Hilliz stiffened. The dagger bit deeper into Saldís’s neck, enough to permit blood to well up and dribble from the wound. “Back away, dwarf. Or I’ll kill her.”

If he did, he’d have her dwarf on him before her body fell. The fingers of her left hand slowly inched to her right side where her eating knife was holstered. 

“Don’t you dare.” Yahzin this time. Closer and closer, Saldís’s fingers migrated. The blonde girl shoved her way to the forefront, her blade unsheathed. “Or _we’ll_ kill _you.”_

Saldís’s index finger brushed the steel of her hilt as Hilliz laughed. “I don’t think your friends are as eager to face me as you think, Novice.”

“Yahzin,” the girl responded with lifted chin. “Newly adopted daughter to Thannor, Ranger of the North. One of the Dunedain.”

Silence. Wide gazes flew among Saldís’s Novices. “The Dunedain?” long-haired Gylmal asked. 

Yahzin’s focus cut to him. “They came to save us Novices.” Then with a glower at Hilliz, “From _them.”_

“The Dunedain?” Hilliz growled. His knife dug deeper as his lips nuzzled her ear. “You betrayed us to our enemy.”

A branch snapped. Hilliz jerked back on the knife, the flat of the blade forcing her chin up. But then, a muffled thump sounded. 

Hilliz’s body jerked. His fingers dangled open, dropping the dagger. His body crumpled atop of it. 

With a hand to her throat, Saldís whirled around only to find Finnin’s big fist lowering. Finnin bestowed an unpleasant smile upon his victim. “Always you Black Númenóreans underestimate Durin’s folk. We need no weapons. Our fists work quite well.”

By his Maker, the dwarf looked magnificent, both wild and strong. There he stood, his bonds in tatters, hairy chest bared and shoulders back. _My conquering warrior,_ drifted through her mind, quirking her lips. ‘Twas all she could do not to snatch him close and kiss him senseless.

“Eh, Saldís?” he said, looking beyond her. 

_Novices._ She swiveled about. So many uncertain and angry faces, so much distrust where there had been the opposite but an hour before. _So be it._ Releasing her neck—the bleeding didn’t feel dangerous—she unbuckled her sword belt.

_“Bâhzundushuh?”_ Finnin stepped to her side. 

By all the accursed orcs in Mordor, this could end badly. Very badly. “Trust me?” she asked of him, her attention on her troops. 

“Always.”

Warmth filled her chest, and she gave him a small smile. _“Kibilal,”_ she murmured. (Charmer.) 

Saldís knelt to set her sheathed sword on the ground and began to divest herself of whip, daggers, and garrote, too. “Finnin, free Erynor. He’s a part of this, too.”

“Aye.” Heavy footsteps walked the few paces away to reach the other Ranger.

Only when she had disarmed herself did she straighten and display open, blood-slicked palms to her Novices. “Anuon? Go to your brother-in-law, if you would. If he enters this camp, he does so unarmed.”

The archer slowly walked through the crowd of Novices and _emala._ “Are you certain you wish to do this?”

“I am,” she assured him with hands yet displayed and attention never deviating from her Novices. “If you wish to depart, you may do so. As for me, I am with them.” Her chin indicated the youngsters, and by her soul, she meant it. 

Anuon paused by her side. Then following an exasperated sigh, he wrapped something thin around her neck. “No sense letting you bleed,” he said. Then affixing it to his satisfaction, he placed one hand to her shoulder. “We stand with you. I’ll catch Thannor as he rides in.”

She nodded, but she didn’t know if he saw it. She would not turn her back on her audience. 

In a voice pitched to carry, she said, “I know you have questions and doubts. My only request is that you hear me out. _You_ will decide what happens this day.”

“Us?” Gylmal asked sharply, doubt lurking in his gray eyes. Fourteen years old, he was, in a body well on its way to becoming a man's. That spectacular hair of his was contained in a single plait down his back, doubtless riddled with hidden blades and wires.

“You,” she told him. “All along, I intended this to be your choice.” A single step forward, and she said, “May we sit? I am unarmed. Ciryan, would you like to verify the truth of my words?”

The Weapons-Novice who’d correctly identified Thannor pursed his lips. Black of hair like Gylmal, Ciryan was, but his locks were shorn chin-length. Saldís assumed him to be younger than the other Novice, for his frame was thinner. Boyish.

“That won’t be necessary,” Yanar decreed. The brunette Arcanist-Novice stepped forward. 

Saldís refused to heed the spurt of uncertainty his presence generated—he’d not chosen to be an Arcanist, but that he had been did not speak well of him. Yet from the day she’d first addressed her children, he’d been quiet. Reflective. _I came to save you,_ rang through her mind.

Akhora, she absently noted, was again silent. Biding her time, she assumed. 

“We’ll listen,” Yanar said without inflection. His face betrayed none of his inner workings. 

Saldís inclined her head, grimacing to herself at the stab of pain the motion sent through her neck. “Thank you, Novice Yanar.”

With the press of over a hundred pairs of eyes following her, she walked across a thick carpet of green grass, aiming for a squat slab of stone sitting near the center of the Novices’ midst. There, she sat with one leg folded beneath her. A show of trust. She did not try to position herself defensibly, and they knew it. 

The Novices, meanwhile, spoke among themselves, and soon they had the _emala_ gathered to one side out of their way. They, too, seated themselves, though they kept their weapons close at hand.

Movement drew her attention to the north. Thannor marched through the Novice ranks, empty hands lifted and head high. Behind him, Anuon, also shorn of weapons, as well as Finnin and Erynor. 

The four joined her on the slab of rock, Thannor seating himself to her left, Finnin her right. The other two sat behind her.   
“Alright,” she said. “This is Thannor, Finnin, Erynor, and Anuon.” She gestured to each in turn. “Three are Dunedain. Finnin is a dwarf from Thorin’s Hall in Ered Luin. Now,” she said gravely, “before Ne-Hilliz wakes up, let me tell you how we all came to be here today.”

She did just that. She spared herself no humiliation, retelling every wretched thought, every fear and event that had transpired since the day Nori had found her in Dale. She told them how betrayed she’d felt to learn of the manipulation done to her by the Hands. She told them of what she’d witnessed among men and dwarrow. 

She even told them, Finnin’s fingers intertwining with hers, about lashing out at the dwarves in an bid to escape the truth of what she was. The monster she’d become.

The silence from her audience was absolute. Their attention, sharp as a blade’s edge. When she recounted her intention to halt Mordor to protect Bjartur, Martur and Sigrun, then her subsequent realization of who else she put in harm’s way—namely, these very Novices—a few snorted in disdain. But most… Ah, most listened. Some, she hoped, understood.

She took them through events on the Swan in Flight and its aftermath. She even, Mahal save her, told them about the rift within herself. About Akhora. 

Aye, they might well turn on her as a crazy woman. She wouldn’t blame them. But they deserved the unvarnished truth, and by sharing something so debasing, she hoped to prove herself different from all the others who had ever commanded them. 

Her voice was hoarse by the time she finished, and by her best estimates, it was approaching the fourth hour. Saldís felt strangely at peace. She’d scraped out her soul with her bare hands to display to them. There was naught else she could do. 

“It is your turn,” she said at last. “Now you know the full of it. Umbar is gone. Caeldor is no more. Mordor lies ahead. Choose your fate.”

Then weary to her core both from lack of sleep and from sharing many of the worst moments of her life so candidly—by her soul, it was akin to reliving them—she said with a touch of humor, “Now, as these may be my final moments, I’m going to cuddle with my dwarf. I’ve not had much sleep this week for worrying about this very discussion.”

She paused. “I wish so much to see you spared the future the Duumvirate has for you.” Durin’s ax, her eyes welled with moisture, tears she wiped away with the back of one hand. “I care. That’s all I can say. I care.”

Her gaze locked with Finnin’s, and she reached out to tug upon his beard. For him alone, she said, “I’ve not had nearly enough time in your arms.”

“Aye,” her dwarf whispered as he gathered her close. With a sigh, she rested her head upon his shoulder, and her lips curled to feel him press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’ve done us all proud, my Saldís. Lady Dís could not have said it finer.”

“Hear, hear,” Erynor agreed. 

No matter the outcome, she rested knowing she’d done her best.

OoOoOo

Mutters flew. Confusion. Anger. Suspicion. Disappointment.

“She lied to us.”

“No, she didn’t,” another countered in a low hiss. “Not to us.”

“Do you think they’re different? Them Rangers?”

“I think _she’s_ different. She beats the Hands, and don’t try to say she doesn’t. She and that Anin—”

“Anuon.”

“Same difference. They were the first to treat us like we mattered.”

“So did Hilliz.”

“At her say so.”

On and on it went.

OoOoOo

Yahzin had lingered in the background, partially hidden among the other Novices. By the Eye, she’d never felt more cowardly. A part of her clamored to approach Thannor, the Ranger she’d boldly claimed as father before all the Novices an hour before, but she resisted the inner prompting.

She knew he’d located her. His eyes had conveyed relief (to find her well, she supposed) and concern the longer the minutes stretched onward without a word of greeting from her. 

_You are going to ruin this,_ the inner voice growled, and she feared it was right. She was likely disappointing the man, but nerves turned her as skittish as Tovennen’s prairie dogs. 

She’d had only a couple dozen minutes with Thannor in Caeldor. What if he’d changed his mind? What did she really know of him? More, what did _Yahzin_ know of being a _daughter?_

Time and again, Thannor’s green-gray returned to her, a gentleness lurking in their depths at odds with his contained, dangerous appearance. The Ranger did not force her to his side nor command her—further proof he was nothing like the Six Lords or Duumvirate—and that fact chipped away at her fears. 

_My…father,_ she told herself, willing herself to believe it. The problem was that she was not sure what “father” meant. How could she?

After Akhora’s— _Saldís’s_ —tale, Yahzin was more determined than ever to leave the Black Númenórean life behind, but she struggled to imagine being part of a family. Acrid frustration welled up, one tinged by bitterness, for she didn’t know what to expect…from Thannor, his family or herself. 

_I could be like him, though,_ she thought, her gaze returning to the man. Yes, that was a future Yahzin could embrace—becoming a Ranger like Thannor. She could use her training to protect others instead of preying upon them. 

It was a more thoughtful Yahzin who next studied the commander she’d come to respect, a woman who, if Yahzin claimed Thannor, Yahzin could rightfully name cousin. The older woman had disarmed herself and place herself at the mercy of a bunch of angry kids, an act Yahzin viewed as borderline foolhardy. The commander had put herself at their mercy.

Then, Saldís had made her most shocking revelation yet, that events had split the woman’s personality into two. Yahzin had watched as uneasy glances had flown among the other Novices, and Yahzin herself was not completely immune. 

_It’s proof she trusts us,_ a part of her argued fiercely in the woman’s defense. _She could have hidden it. She didn’t have to tell us._

A truth. 

Mad or not, Yahzin decided to continue trusting her commander. Saldís must have known how the Novices would react, but she had told them anyway. She granted them the freedom to choose without withholding important information to sway them. 

It demonstrated respect, and by the Eye, Yahzin didn’t lose sight of that. No one had ever treated them the way this woman had.

_My turn._ If she could nudge the others in the right direction, Yahzin would do so. _I’ve procrastinated long enough._ She took a deep, nervous inhale and stood. 

Flashing a tentative smile at her father, she said, “You all know me. We’ve fought together and against one another all week. I think you know what my choice will be. You heard my words to Ne-Hilliz.” She faced her father. “I’m honored to say I’ve been adopted by Ranger Thannor. I will do my best to make him proud.”

The Ranger’s eyes held hers. “You already do.”

Yahzin’s chin wobbled, her eyes rounded, as the punch of his words— _good_ words—hit her. The emotions that flooded her were utterly foreign, but one taste and she hungered for more. Was this, then, a part of what it meant to have family? 

Yahzin fidgeted, her weight transferring from foot to foot. “What Ib-Ak—” She halted. Changed her mind. “No. What my cousin _Saldís_ said was true. She saved me. It was stupid. _I_ was stupid to be caught out as I was, but she saved me. She told me she and the Dunedain had come to lead us to a better—” 

“Better?” another interrupted. “There is no better.”

“Shut up, Kizon,” a girl snapped. Black-haired Sivva, Yahzin determined. One of the youngest and smallest of their number. 

“Or what?” Kizon growled.

“She was right,” a voice interrupted flatly, a voice they all heeded. Yanar gained his feet, his Eye pendant winking in the sun. “She. Was. Right,” he stressed, his head tilting towards Saldís. “We’re stronger together. So let’s _be_ together. We discuss this. We decide our future. But if we go back to squabbling like snot-nosed kids, like scrubby Corsair brats, then we lose. We get picked off by senior Weapons and Arcanists the instant we slink into Mordor.”

“Probably orcs, too,” fiery haired Dezzin commented. He shrugged as all eyes flew his way. “You know I’m right.”

That took a lot of them aback. And rightfully so, Yahzin thought. Bad enough what they’d all be subject to among their own. To have the same from orcs… She swallowed bile.

Yahzin ventured to add, “I don’t know about all of you, but I liked knowing you had my back. I liked not being alone.”

A rumble among their ranks, one Yahzin took for agreement even if it was grudging. 

“So first thing first,” Gylmal said, rising to his feet, too. Sweeping his long braid over his shoulder, he said, “Do we believe what Ib-Akhora…Saldís…told us?”

OoOoOo

Thannor watched his new daughter with both fear and pride. Berenor, he knew, would adore this new sister, for she was much like Berenor’s mother—unafraid to speak her mind. _May we both walk away from these fields intact,_ he thought.

Thannor’s hand reached over to grasp Saldís’s ankle, and one gray eye swam into view between hanks of her hair. What she’d shared had taken courage, and he knew it had been difficult for each of the Rangers and especially Finnin to hear. It was the verbal equivalent of stripping oneself naked before a crowd of clothed detractors and letting them see every flaw, every blemish. 

_Marked by the Valar, indeed,_ he thought, his eyes finding the scar upon her left hand where it rested against Finnin’s chest. Endurance. 

The gray eye closed, and Thannor retracted his hand. By Eru, his cousin looked almost asleep. When she’d said she was going to enjoy her last moments with her dwarf, she hadn’t been kidding. He’d never seen her so relaxed and contented. 

His attention returned to the Novices as they debated among themselves. They hashed out every word Saldís has spoken, tearing it apart and turning it about in their minds to sniff out the veracity of it. 

Thannor rubbed his face, whiskers chafing his palms. Perhaps his cousin had the right of it. One slept when one could, especially given the onerous task waiting should Saldís’s appeal win the day. 

“Sleep,” Anuon murmured to him. 

“Reading my mind?” he asked blandly.

“No, the lines of exhaustion upon your face. Sleep, Thannor.”

“My _son_ is in _Mordor,”_ he choked out. 

Anuon wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “And we will get him back. You are no use to him if you run yourself into the ground. Sleep.”

With a weary sigh, Thannor capitulated, reclining on his back. Of their own volition, his eyelids dropped, only to jerk open when a small hand touched his shoulder. Yahzin. 

“Are you… Are you well, Father?” she asked timidly. 

_By Lady Nienna's mercy._ He gripped her hand before she could draw it back and gave it a squeeze. 

“He’s only tired,” Anuon offered. “Exhausted himself worrying about you and your brother.”

And by the Valar, it was the truth. His daughter’s eyes flew from Thannor to Anuon and back again. “My…brother,” she said. “Berenor? Did you find him?”

“Yes,” Thannor said, knowing his voice resounded with defeat. “He is now in Mordor.”

Her eyes flared. Her lips flattened. Then her attention migrated beyond Anuon. “She’ll go after him, won’t she? My cousin?”

“Yes,” a sleepy Saldís answered. “She will go after him.”

OoOoOo

Saldís reluctantly extricated herself from Finnin’s embrace. If Berenor was in Mordor, she had no time to catch up on sleep. Every minute counted.

She paused, unable to resist pressing her forehead to Finnin’s. “Mordor,” she whispered to him. 

“I heard,” Finnin rumbled. “I’ll be with you, _Bâhzundushuh.”_

She’d known it intuitively. And though a part of her wished to argue, she didn’t. She wanted him there, wanted his anchoring presence to help her ward off any of Akhora’s new assaults. _“Dolzekh menu,”_ she said, holding his Tane blue eyes with hers.

His grin flashed. “Not going to argue with me?”

“No,” she said, her sobriety slaying his grin. “I need you with me.”

Rough-skinned fingers brushed against her cheek before tugging upon a lock of her hair. “I’m wanting my braid in your hair before we go,” he said abruptly. “You can hide it beneath your head scarf if need be, but I’m wanting this. Your uncle Nori should replait your adoption braid as well.” 

He hushed her with one finger when her lips parted to argue. “Nay,” he said. “We go in to evil’s very throne room, lass. If we do this, you go with the symbols of your people upon you.”

When he put it that way, she found herself in agreement. “Alright.”

“Aye?”

“Aye.” A soft, short kiss, and she pulled back. A glance around found that the Novices had separated themselves from the Company to debate. They kept an eye on herself and the others, but they spoke lowly among themselves with many an adamant gesture. 

She spared a thought to hope they understood how much she feared for them. 

Saldís rose wearily. Turning to Thannor, she said, “You should have told me of Berenor’s plight sooner.”

He grunted, neck craning about at an odd angle to find her. “This had to happen. The Novices needed this.”

“Well, they’ve gotten it. No more delaying. Let’s go get your son.” In Mordor. With the Eye burning down upon them. 

He was on his feet in an instant, Yahzin by his side. “The Novices…” Thannor began.

“Will make up their minds,” Saldís said firmly. Then with a smile full of mockery, she said, “They’ll either let us go, turn on us, or hunt us down later. Either way, we’ve done what we can.”

Thannor nodded shortly. Then he seemed to catch himself. His gaze returned to hers. “Dori is at the Cross-roads.”

“Dori?” _Mahal._ Saldís rocked, leaning into Finnin when his arm wrapped around her waist. “He’s well?”

Her cousin rubbed his nose. “He took on the entire team of Black Númenóreans.” The words sent ice through her chest. _What?_ “He was looking after Calenor when last I saw him. I did not stop to exchange words. Once it was clear my son was out of my reach, I raced by, shouting to him what had transpired and that I was off to find you. That is all I know. I’m sorry.”

Adâd. Uncle Bofur. Where in Mahal’s name were they? The sense of urgency that had claimed her upon learning Berenor’s fate intensified. She had to get to Dori.

She whirled to Anuon. “You said Nori followed?” 

He dipped his head. “Along with Finnur and Orodon.”

“We’ll need them.”

“Say no more.” Anuon brazenly marched through the crowd of Novices, interrupting their discussion and causing them all to abruptly realize the Black Company was on the move. He found his _emala,_ mounted without hesitation, and within seconds had the bird racing south. 

_Dori._ Saldís’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon for a long beat of the heart. 

She shook herself. “Erynor, think you can manage one of these things?” she asked the Brother as she led the others to the _emala._

“I’ll keep my seat,” he said with a wink and a grin. 

Finnin swatted him. “Mind the flirting. She’s taken.”

Erynor’s hand came to his heart as they neared the Novices. “My humblest apologies, Master Finnin.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “I’ll have to nurse my broken heart elsewhere.”

Saldís wrinkled her nose. Then as the Novices suddenly formed a belligerent wall, blocking them, her humor faded. She turned businesslike. “Questions?”

“What are you up to?” Gylmal asked, the dark-skinned boy’s gray eyes intent as he planted himself at the head of the Novices with feet splayed. Behind him, the rest of the Novices—all but Yahzin who walked at Thannor’s side—backed the Weapons-Novice up with similar stances. 

By Mahal. No matter what else, she’d done it. These were acting as a team and of their own accord. She could not be more pleased, not unless they unanimously voted to join the Company, but she didn’t expect that to happen just yet. 

Pleased or not, however, she didn’t have time for this. Not with Berenor in Mordor and Dori waiting and likely fretting less than a day’s journey north of them. 

“Where did Anin go?” another Novice asked. Ziphora, Saldís identified upon spotting the exotic-looking fourteen year old. She could be Gylmal’s sister, Saldís thought, and mayhap the girl was, but where Gylmal’s eyes were shockingly gray, Ziphora’s were dark brown. 

“He went to collect other members of our Company,” Saldís told them briskly. “We are leaving.”

“Leaving?” more than one Novice repeated, their voices pitching higher. 

“Leaving,” she told him. “With or without my weapons, though I would appreciate their return.”

“I wouldn’t be adverse to having some myself,” Erynor interjected.

“Duly noted,” Saldís said. After a deep breath, she said, “I could not be more proud of the way you are handling this day as a team if I’d trained you your whole lives. Work together,” she urged them. “Protect one another.”

“Where are you going?” Alhez asked, winding his way through his fellow Novices to their front lines. A breeze rustled his curls as his vivid blue eyes stared up at her. “And why?”

“You can’t go leaving them without direction,” Finnin murmured.

Saldís rubbed the nape of her neck. Aye, he had the right of it. 

After a short exhale, she said, “All of you know that three men wearing runes upon their faces…” She gestured to Erynor. “…were captured in Caeldor. Erynor, here, was relatively safe with us. The other two were sent to Mordor with Ib-Lohrzor of House Sangahyando. Thannor and the dwarf Dori were able to save one, but the other is now in the Dark Lord’s hands. My friends and I are going to get him back.”

A couple hard looks came her way. A couple nervous mutters flew among them. 

Saldís grew impatient. “I told you your fate was in your hands. So this is it. You can untie Ne-Hilliz and ride to Mordor to report me as a traitor. I’m certain with your warning, we’ll be rooted out in no time. Or,” she said, “you can take up your swords and cut us down. We are unarmed. Barring that, you cannot stop us from pressing onward. Just as I’ve been teaching you to protect one another, Berenor is ours. He has our blades just as he’s protected the Company with his.”

She was about to push through their ranks when Yahzin spoke. “Or,” she said in ringing tones, “we can join them. We can fight for ourselves. For our freedom.”

What? Saldís turned on her, but it was Thannor who said, “You are _not_ entering Mordor.”

The girl’s chin lifted, and her green eyes flashed. “He is _my_ brother. I have a right to fight for him.” Then less certainly as her new father stared her down, “I have a right to fight for you,” she burst. 

Thannor cupped her cheek. “Would you consider riding north instead? Someone must take word to our chieftain.”

“I want to stay with you,” Yahzin argued.

This was taking too much time. Saldís intervened. “We can discuss this on the road. For now, we ride.” To the Novices, she directed, “Should you decide to throw in with us, you will find a safe haven with Aragorn. He is the chieftain of the Dunedain and your distant kinsman. He and the Gray Company will welcome you.”

“I’ll escort them,” a new voice intruded. Saldís turned with a smile, one that grew as Orodon led both Finnur and Nori into their midst. The Ranger dipped his head to Saldís. “You go head. It is my duty to reach Aragorn. I’ll get things sorted here.” To the Novices, “Any of you who wish to become Rangers, grab your mounts. You’re with me.” Back to Saldís, “Go.”

Saldís delayed long enough to hug the breath from Nori, laughing as he lifted her off her feet with the strength of his embrace. Then collecting their weapons from the Novices—some were definitely adverse to granting them, but Yanar and Gylmal overruled them—they raced to their _emala,_ Finnin sharing Saldís’s, and Erynor claiming Thannor’s spare mount. 

By Durin. She twisted in the saddle, staring at her Novices. “Make me proud,” she all but begged them. Then setting her face to the north, she urged her _emala_ into its fastest run. 

She had to reach Dori.

And finally get word of Adâd.


	53. Fear and the Secret Stair

_**21 March TA 3019  
Cross-roads, Gondor** _

Dori had no sooner finished speaking than Saldís was lashing the scimitar Ugmil’adad had forged for her to her waist beside the inferior Caeldorian version. Every bit of blood had fled her face—she’d felt its passage in the lightheaded wave that had threatened to upset her balance—and a cold resolve had taken its place. 

“Saldís?” 

She ignored Nori as well as her companions’ heavy stares. Adâd and Uncle Bofur were in Mordor. Because of _her._

Now she understood why Dori had been so reluctant to answer questions about the two who’d remained with him in Dol Amroth. Aye, he’d known she’d be upset, and in typical Dori fashion, he’d tried to protect her. 

Bifur and Bofur. In Mordor. The words gonged repetitiously through her mind. In Mordor under _Valkthor’s_ care. 

_Not for long,_ she swore. Not if she had aught to say about it. _You should not have touched them,_ she told her half-brother as she walked across the uneven stones of the Cross-roads to stand in the center of the branch that marched to Minas Morgul. There she stood, the wind whipping tendrils of her hair to one side. 

_You cannot save them without me,_ a sly voice said, one that shared her eyes as they stared at the shadow-shrouded obstacle squatting within the pass of Cirith Ungol, cutting off all access into Mordor but through its gates. 

_You don’t care,_ Saldís accused without heat. ‘Twas a fact. Nothing more.

_No,_ Akhora agreed. _I don’t. But thanks to **you** I am branded a traitor,_ she said, spitting the last word. _There is no going back. So. To save **my** life, this war must be won._

‘Twas true, but Saldís did not answer. Deep inside, her gut twisted sickly. This was the biggest temptation Akhora could have ever imagined, and Saldís hadn’t the strength to turn her back on it. For Adâd, she would do anything. 

_He wouldn’t want this,_ a part of her whispered.

He wouldn’t, the rest of her agreed. But Bifur was _in Mordor._ What more damage could Akhora do? 

Caeldor was gone, the Novices safe. If Saldís found she needed that resolve… For Adâd, she would sacrifice her soul. Even if it meant disaster. 

‘Twas selfish, and she knew it. It wasn’t in her to withhold any effort to save him, because she feared what she’d be without him. 

A blond-haired, bearded body plunked itself before her, arms crossed before his chest and Tane-blue eyes turbulent as the river had never been. “Nay,” he said with soft menace.

She read the stubborn anger there, the grief twined with fear, but she did not let it touch her. Adâd was in Mordor, and that was her destination. “You cannot stop me,” she said softly, though a pang disrupted her resolve.

“You’re not going alone, and not like this,” he said. ‘Twas as if the dwarf’s obstinacy provided his body more mass, for he seemed to grow in girth and height. 

“I will go through you if you force me,” she said evenly, only a tiny note of strain worming its way into her voice. “Adâd is in there. _Nothing_ will stop me from going after him.”

A flash of pain within his eyes, a stiffening of his shoulders. Then with sublime gentleness, he cupped her face, thumb and fingers bracketing her ears, and drew her resisting forehead to his. Those blue eyes refused to let her loose. “So soon you forget, Dushin-Mizim. We are stronger together. We will get them back,” he whispered. 

Anger flamed, and guilt and grief. “Finnin…”

“Nay,” he said intently, eyes burning into hers. “You will not see them spared by turning yourself in at the gate, my Saldís. You’ll only ensure they die the sooner.”

‘Twas like a punch in the gut. Her eyes scrunched shut. “I know,” she said. “But I have to go after them, Finnin. I can’t…” Her voice broke. “It’s Adâd. I can’t…”

“Lad’s got the right of it,” Nori said, his boots kicking up a stray loose stone as he joined them. 

“Nori,” she tried, and Finnin permitted her to draw back so that she could face her uncle. 

It was Adâd they were speaking of. They didn’t understand. How could they when she hadn’t the words for it? Adâd was her anchor. He was the reason she’d fought off Akhora time and again. He guided her steps even when he wasn’t there. 

Nay, in all probability it was not healthy, this dependency upon Bifur, but she didn’t care. Bifur was the reason there was a Saldís.

OoOoOo

Nori’s frown deepened, and a sideways glance at his brother revealed Dori harbored the same fears as himself. _You’d best be okay, Umral,_ he sent to Bifur’s image in his mind. _For your daughter’s sake._

“Whatever it is you’re scheming in that bonny head o’ yours,” Nori growled, “you’d best understand we’re going with you. Don’t you give me that look,” he added when she straightened and glared down at him. “I’m still your uncle. I can still paddle your hind end if you try something foolish.”

For a moment, he wondered if she’d actually strike him. Then her face crumpled, it did, and she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight as she could, he was sure. By Durin. She was shaking.

“Nori,” she whispered, her voice tremulous and frightened as he’d never heard before. Then in a voice pitched so that he knew he alone heard her, she confessed, “She’s tempting me. And if I need her, I may not…”

He tightened his grip. A hundred foul epithets ran through his mind. Aye, he heard her, and he understood exactly what she was saying. Where it came to Bifur, his niece had no defenses, and that wretched Akhora side of her was already taking advantage of it. 

“You listen to me,” Nori murmured. With one hand, he subtly informed Dori and Finnin of the situation in Iglishmêk. Underhanded, aye, but Nori would not take chances with Saldís. 

“You listen good, you hear?” he continued. “You’ll not accomplish anything but destroying your adâd if you let that one win. Here’s what we’re going to do. Entering that Valar-cursed city was our plan before. Your cousin needs you, too. So we find a way in that does not include handing ourselves over for torture and dismemberment, and we get them back. Aye?”

“This is my doing,” she said, her voice rising in a half-moan, half-snarl. Aye, and she was castigating herself, for sure. “If I hadn’t—”

“What?” Dori interrupted, sputtering. “If you’d not returned to us? Don’t _say_ such things. Finding you alive,” he sniffled, “was a gift, and I’d shave years from my life—aye, and my beard—to keep it.”

One of Saldís’s arms snaked out to include Dori in their embrace. 

‘Twas then that Dori gasped in pure outrage. “What in Durin’s…?” Rounding on Nori, his brother shouted, “You _singed your hair?”_

Nori groaned, head dropping onto his niece’s shoulder while Dori dressed him down like a dwarfling before all and sundry. 

Saldís, ungrateful niece she was, broke into watery snickers.

OoOoOo

“It is legend,” Thannor had warned them as the Black Company, minus too many members, crept along the northern edge of the the road leading into Minas Morgul. Each of the men wore black Black Númenórean garb and each dwarf his darkest attire.

All of them carried small packs. There would be no safe water to drink once they crossed the bridge over the Morgulduin, and food would be hard to come by. 

“Legend?” Saldís had asked sharply. “You mean you are not sure it exists?”

Thannor had spread his palms. “It’s said the Stairs were carved out of the Mountains of Shadow by command of Isildur himself after the first conquest of Minas Ithil, a secret way past Minas Ithil’s gates that permitted the Rangers of Ithilien to scout the city before it was won back for Gondor.”

“Then it’s not much of a secret, is it?” Finnin had asked.

Thannor had flashed a look back at Saldís’s dwarf, one conveying his frustration. “Minas Ithil was reclaimed by Sauron’s servants. It became a nest of evil too powerful for Gondor to continue wasting men in a futile attempt to regain. The Stairs were never utilized again. I know the legend only due to my heritage. Believe me when I say Isildur guarded word of the Stairs very closely. Only the Rangers of Ithilien who scouted for him and the few brave souls who created them under the enemy’s nose knew of their existence. They were never common knowledge.”

_“If_ they exist,” Nori had groused.

“If they exist,” Thannor had agreed.

Exist, they did. 

It was Anuon who found them, and Anuon who took point, leading the way up the perilous mountainside. Stairs, Saldís would never have dubbed them. Not even when they’d been new. The subtle chiseling into the mountainside was barely detectable in the persistent shadow that turned day into night. Most were located by feel rather than sight, and the dwarves’ heavier boots had difficulty finding purchase on the painfully narrow slabs. 

Up and up they went, Anuon guiding with Dori, Nori, and Finnin trailing behind. After them came Saldís herself, and lastly Thannor. Isildur, Saldís decided, had been either a madman or a genius. Truly, there was little chance any not warned of the Stairs’ existence would ever stumble upon them. 

After hours of climbing, the Company reached a small landing barely large enough for them all to sit. There, they ate dry handfuls of provisions in silence, the wind batting Saldís’s two new braids into her cheeks. 

Adoption and courtship braids, one from each temple. Both had been plaited by dwarves who had refused to take one step from the Cross-roads before they were done. Bjartur’s pendant once again hung around her neck, and Adâd’s flute was tucked into her boot—both entrusted to Finnur by Ragan before the two had parted ways in Dol Hamoth. 

She knew their reasoning. Nori, she suspected, had tattled. All three dwarves had become overbearingly protective since the moment she’d confessed her weakness, and they’d managed to place as many signs of her ties to them on her as they could, including the courtship “bracelet” Finnin had constructed for her.

‘Twas not a bracelet in the truest sense, and she’d been humbled when he’d latched it into place on her left wrist. Consisting of tooled leather over metal slats, her dwarf had crafted her a bracer dyed a midnight blue hue with darker charcoal runes upon its surface: fealty, courage, endurance, and devotion. 

It was enough to give her heavy doubts about letting Akhora talk her into anything for fear of losing what the bracelet and Finnin represented: a future. Finnin’s intent, she was sure, in gifting it now. 

Aye. Her gaze turned to him where he sat next to Nori, both of them narrow-eyed and tense. Her dwarf had known what he’d been about, and audience or not, she’d kissed him, much to Yahzin’s shock.

A glance to her right revealed her cousin stared worriedly at the shadowy outline of the Cross-roads far below. “Yahzin will be fine,” Saldís whispered.

Thannor’s eyes rushed to her. 

“Better she heads towards Minas Tirith with Orodon and whichever Novices joined him,” she added. “Erynor and Calenor will protect her. You know they will.”

Thannor hummed his agreement but looked no happier for it. 

Saldís exhaled softly, forehead furrowing. Well did she understand Thannor’s worries. Finnur, Eynor, Calenor and Yahzin waited at the Cross-roads for Orodon’s group, intending to join them in seeking—

_If the Chieftain lives,_ Akhora interjected silkily. 

_Warg dung._ Saldís thrust Akhora’s words from her, but their meaning was not so easily dismissed. By Durin, she yearned for certainty where her Novices were concerned, and to know that when Orodon, Erynor, and the others headed westward to Minas Tirith that it was not a futile effort. Aragorn must live. With Saldís in Mordor, Lady Dis off to the East, and Lord Dwalin too far away to intervene even should he take an interest in the Novices’ fates, only Aragorn remained a viable option for protecting and guiding those young ones. 

But if he had fallen, or Minas Tirith was no more…

_Nothing to be done about it. Events will fall as they will._

Saldís dared to hope, but it did not drown out the sour taste of fear.

OoOoOo

“I should have gone with them,” Finnur grumbled.

Erynor bit back an impatient sigh at the oft repeated statement. “Mordor may be marching,” he said, and not for the first or second time. “If there is to be any victory against the Black Númenórean army, we will need you.”

Finnur’s answering scowl, too, had become rote though Erynor didn’t blame the dwarf one bit for it. If Erynor had his druthers, he’d be searching with their friends for the Stairs, too, not sitting back and waiting. 

“We should go after them,” Yahzin said. 

Erynor’s focus slid to the girl. She was Berenor’s new sister, though Erynor’s brother didn’t yet know about it. Whether Yahzin was thirteen or fourteen years old, Erynor wasn’t sure, but she carried herself like one closer to eighteen. Oh, there were flashes of girlhood from time to time, but too often, Yahzin viewed the world from a tired, skeptical face. 

The Brothers would remedy that. Once The Brothers were assembled once more. 

Erynor shot a glance to Calenor and received his friend’s upward jerk of the chin. Fine. It seemed he was destined to be The Brothers’ spokesman. “Your father would never stand for it.”

She shuffled her feet, scuffing the soles of her boots against the crackled pavement, and shoved her hair from her face. Then she pivoted, facing him. “I’m a Weapon,” she stressed. “Not some weakling Gondorian miss.”

“Have you met any?” he asked mildly.

Her brow wrinkled. “What?”

“Have you met any?” he repeated.

“Met any what?”

“Gondorians.”

Her head tilted to one side, and her eyes narrowed. “No,” she drew out.

Calenor snorted beside him softly. Erynor cocked one eyebrow and asked, “Then how do you know they are weaklings?”

Her lips parted, then snapped shut. She huffed. “It doesn’t matter. I still think…” 

Yahzin whipped around, sword unsheathed faster than some of his kinsmen could manage. Erynor and Calenor snapped to alert, drawing their weapons and positioning themselves to either side of her. Erynor cocked his head to one side, seeking for whatever sound Yahzin had caught.

“What? What is it?” came Finnur’s loud grumble from behind, immediately followed by heavy footsteps. 

Calenor lifted one hand to silence the dwarf. Erynor’s focus never left the Harad Road to their south. A large group came into view, one mounted upon _emala._

“Hide,” Calenor said.

“No,” Erynor countered sharply. “It’s Orodon. It has to be.”

Calenor shot him a sideways look. “I thought you said he was recruiting what Novices wished to join us,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

“I did.”

“I thought you said there wouldn’t be many.”

The closer the oncoming force came, the more Erynor’s lips tilted upwards. “I did.”

Yahzin sniffed. “He was wrong.”

Erynor grinned and tried to ruffle her hair, but the girl dodged with a scowl. “I was wrong,” he agreed. 

Relief poured over him as dozens upon dozens of _emala_ filled the center space of the Cross-roads, each bearing one of Saldís’s recruits. Most of them sat their birds regally, but in the center of their midst, Erynor spotted eight— _No, nine_ —tied to their saddles with gags in their mouths and mutinous expressions upon their faces. 

_No Ne-Hilliz._

Before Erynor could ask Orodon about the trussed up Novices or the missing Weapon, Yahzin stepped forward. “You came.”

A number of the Novices adopted grins, and one tall boy with chin-length brown hair—Yanar, Erynor believed he was called—nudged his mount forward beside Orodon’s. “We discussed it,” he directed to Yahzin. “We fight for our commander, and her alone.” Then after a sweeping glance, “Where is Ib-Saldís?”

_Ib_ -Saldís?

Yahzin’s expression turned triumphantly smug, and Erynor instantly groaned, _Oh no._ Before he could clap a hand over her mouth, the termagant informed her fellows, “She needs our help.”

A rumble moved through the Novices.

“Yahzin,” Erynor warned. She had better not be doing what he thought she was doing.

A hard glare slashed his way, one that threatened to flay the skin from Erynor’s body. _She definitely belongs in Berenor’s family,_ Erynor thought, a spurt of amusement finding him despite the circumstances. Thannor’s wife had a look just as virulent.

Yahzin’s chin lifted before the girl showed Erynor her back. With one finger pointing towards Minas Morgul, Yahzin informed her fellow Novices, “She and some dwarves and Rangers are climbing something called the Secret Stairs to sneak into Mordor. Ib-Valkthor took Saldís’s dwarf father prisoner. She and the Company are going after their…” She slapped the back of a hand against Erynor’s chest. “…friend and the dwarf.” 

Truly? He was now reduced to a visual aid?

“They will be fine,” Erynor insisted, tossing a frantic look at Calenor, who seemed as stunned by this turn of events as he. “You,” he indicated the Novices, “are to report to Chieftain Aragorn. That is what we are _all_ going to do.”

“Are we?” Yanar asked. 

Orodon, sitting beside the Arcanist, shook his head tiredly. He didn’t, however, intervene.

_Traitor,_ Erynor managed to convey through a glare.

Orodon’s right shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. _What can you do?_

Erynor’s glare hardened. _More than this!_

A bark of a laugh escaped the other Ranger. After twisting in his saddle, Orodon addressed the Novices. “Word must go to Lord Aragorn. He needs to know Black Númenóreans already inhabit Mordor in force.”

Yanar’s head tilted one way, then the other, his short brunette hair ruffling in a sudden breeze. 

“Yanar?” Yahzin prodded. 

“She had to take these…Stairs…because Valkthor reported her as a traitor?” the boy asked, his pale eyes narrowed.

“He did,” Yahzin agreed.

“So she’ll have to sneak around to even find the dwarf—”

“Dwarves,” Erynor instinctively corrected. “Her uncle Bofur was captured as well.”

Yanar cocked one eyebrow at Erynor, as if rebuking him for wasting time. “Dwarves,” the boy corrected with exaggerated patience, “and the Ranger.” He ignored Erynor’s narrowed eyes. With hands resting upon his upper thighs, the boy exchanged a long glance with Alhez before looking over one shoulder at a couple other Novices.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, laddie, don’t,” Finnur unexpectedly interjected, shoving his way past Erynor with a head shake and a sad sigh. 

“What?” Erynor asked. 

“Sittin’ there like a hopeless duck, you are.” A _duck?_ Erynor bristled, but Finnur turned to the Novices. “They’ll find them, never fear.”

“But will it be in time?” a new voice interjected. Erynor could have groaned as black-haired Gylmal stood in his stirrups and glance in the direction of the Dead City. “Besides, dwarf, we trust Ib-Akhora…” His gray eyes rolled at a collective grumble of displeasure he received. “Saldís,” he corrected. “We know what _she_ risked for us. We have no real assurance we won’t be executed as enemies if we ride to Aragorn.”

What? “That would never happen,” Erynor flatly denied.

“So you say,” Yanar responded. “But _I_ say we can do more from here.” Yanar’s shoulders straightened. “We do what our commander did in Caeldor. We undermine our enemy.” A wolfish smile appeared on the teenager’s face. “We enter Mordor, and we _by the Eye_ ruin Ar-Cavendor’s precious plans.”

_What?_ “No,” Erynor said in a hard voice, a sentiment echoed by Calenor and Orodon both.

“You are not our commander,” the kid dared tell him. To his teammates, he said, “We can do a lot of damage if we ride through those gates.”

“You mean as assassins,” little Sivva asked, her hazel eyes lighting with excitement, an excitement too many of the insane little monsters shared. 

“No,” Erynor tried again, but he was roundly ignored. How, he wondered, tempted to tear his hair out, had he lost control of this? _Oh, that’s right. Yahzin._ He threw a glare her way and got a smirk for his efforts. “You can’t just ride through those gates,” he shouted, trying to get them to see sense.

“Why not?” Yahzin asked. “We say that your friend here is Ne-Hilliz and that Saldís escaped with her prisoners before we reached the Cross-roads. We act shocked that she was a traitor and furious that she escaped us.”

“Me?” Calenor objected. 

“You’re the right coloring,” Sivva added helpfully. 

Calenor’s head whirled to Erynor, wordlessly begging for help. 

What was _he_ was supposed to do, Erynor wildly wondered. “What about your hold-outs?” he demanded of the children, his arms flapping in exasperation. “Will they back up your story, pretty please?”

“Of course not,” Yahzin said. “Your Aragorn can have them.” As if it was the most sensible thing in the world. 

Erynor besought Orodon with his eyes. Never had he been at such a loss. 

“Now you see what _I’ve_ dealt with since the moment you departed,” the other Ranger said in a voice rich with frustration. “Saldís succeeded too well. They’re thinking for themselves, all right, and they are a unified force of bullheaded determination.”

That, Erynor thought, summed it up perfectly. _Eru._ He rubbed his face.

“I have to go to Aragorn. I’ll take our…prisoners…with me,” Orodon said with a sigh. 

“You aren’t going alone,” Calenor objected.

“No, he isn’t,” that Yanar said, issuing orders like a commander himself. “Sivva, you go with him. Yahzin, Shilah, Bilal, Ziphora and Hizzia, you too.”

“What? Why me?” Yahzin asked, suddenly not as happy with herself as she’d been. “Why only girls?”

“Because you are the ones most likely to catch the attention of the letches stationed in Mordor,” Yanar said bluntly.

“And the orcs,” Alhez added, swiping one hand through his short mop of brown-blond hair. “Face it, you’re the prettiest.” Then coloring slightly, he added, “I mean…”

“They’re the prettiest,” Orodon said dryly. Then with more respect, he said, “A good leader always considers details like that. Well done.” To the girls, “I need help getting these others north. I know you’d rather ride with your friends into Mordor, but I’d appreciate the assistance.” 

“And we’d rather Thannor not murder us when this is over,” Calenor added, blinking piteous eyes at Yahzin. 

The girl eyed him uncertainly before stepping closer to Erynor, which brought a grin to Erynor’s lips. 

Then he truly realized what it was that had just been decided, and his smile died a violent death. Calenor straightened, his eyes flashing to Erynor’s. They two had just been maneuvered into agreeing to once more play Black Númenóreans. They were going to ride into Minas Morgul. Openly. With over ninety _possible_ Dunedain converts, all teenagers, at their back. 

_Forget Thannor. Saldís is going to kill us._ Escorting _her_ Novices into Mordor?

Yes, his life was over. 

Then a new thought, a tantalizing one: this turn of events would allow Erynor and Calenor to find their brother themselves. All the reasons why he should continue to object to the Novices’ plan faded into insignificance. He, Calenor and Berenor had always been there for each other. Sitting back while others attempted Berenor’s rescue did not sit well with Erynor in the least. 

Erynor struggled within himself, conflicting duties tugging at him. As Yanar had said, Saldís could not simply walk up to one of the Black Númenóreans and ask where the prisoners were kept. Not now. 

_So that leaves it to us._ Or the Novices, rather. 

So be it. 

“Ne-Hilliz?” he asked Orodon privately as the Novices and men sorted themselves into two groups.

Orodon looked at him. Just looked, his face hard and eyes flat.

_Good._ One less worry. “Any sign of Ne-Mahris’s group?”

A short shake of the head. A shared flash of frustration. 

Urgency pressed close like a lover. Little did they need Mahris showing up to decry Calenor an impostor. With lips tight, Erynor grabbed his gear and donned a spare Black Númenórean uniform obtained from a tall Novice.

Minutes later, the Cross-roads emptied. One dwarf, one Ranger and six girls escorting nine Novice “prisoners” raced westward towards Minas Tirith. The rest rode in formation eastward towards Minas Morgul. 

Erynor swallowed back dread as the sickly white glow of the city grew larger before him. This, he thought with a measure of anger and sorrow, had once been the capital of Gondor, the sister to Minas Tirith. 

Once, her walls had glowed back absorbed moonlight at night, turning her white marble walls silver. Once, Minas Ithil had been a crowned jewel.

How wretched to see what the enemy had done to her.

OoOoOo

_  
**Ost Egla, Mordor**  
_

The Mouth cackled to himself, delighted with his new toys. The Master, however, was angered by the news Valkthor had brought, and both had considered the ramifications of this new information. A Black Númenórean traitor. Dwarves from the north in their lands. 

_Find her,_ Sauron instructed the Mouth, his voice the rumble of thunder. _Let all know what happens to any who betray me._

“As you please,” the Mouth said. “If she is as enamored of these dwarves as we believe, she will come.”

_Turn her before them. Let the dwarves see._

Oh, yes. The Mouth tapped fingertips together with relish. Yes, his Master was cruel indeed. Turn her to Darkness, and make the dwarves watch. 

How…delightful.

He grabbed a fistful of the sane dwarf’s hair, amused when the creature glared at him out of brown-green eyes. “When she is utterly corrupted, will she kill you, I wonder?” the Mouth crooned. “Perhaps I should arm you at the last. Will you defend yourself, or let her cut you down?”

The dwarf spat in his face. Then with a hard grin, “Arm me, lad. I’d be glad to show you what a dwarf can do with a blade.”

A lifted hand, and the power the Mouth had grown accustomed to—a power so exquisitely pleasurable—heeded his call. The dwarf screamed, a scream the Mouth had heard before and would enjoy hearing many times more.

OoOoOo

_  
**Secret Stairs, Cirith Ungol**  
_

Saldís’s calves and thighs burned, and her breath rasped from her lungs. The Company climbed with single-minded focus, few words exchanged among them. 

Through it all, the harpy who’d haunted her mind for so long continued her litany, whispering that she would help kill Valkthor, that only Akhora could fight her way through ranks of Black Númenóreans despite any pain, and that Saldís was a fool for not utilizing Akhora’s harder strength. 

Saldís paused on one minuscule step, her hand finding Bjartur’s pendant. _Adâd’s Saldís._ ‘Twas disheartening to find herself reduced to such crutches once again. It felt she’d taken dozens of steps backwards, as if all the weeks of progress in securing her dominance in her own mind were but an illusion. 

_You knew it wouldn’t be easy,_ she cajoled herself. Akhora was tough as nails and bitter and angry as the Sea in tempest. _One foot in front of the other. Akhora is not the strength. I learned that before. I will prove it again._

Releasing the pendant, she continued on. 

Only to stop less than a minute later. What was…? 

Something littered the step above her, something crumbly and pale. “Thannor?” she whispered over her shoulder. She was aware when Finnin, but a meter ahead, paused at the sound of her voice. 

“Saldís?” Finnin asked.

Thannor moved up until they precariously shared the same step. Her cousin’s chest brushed her back. 

“This is no stone,” she explained.

Nay, it was likely unimportant, but anything out of place caused her to bristle with suspicion. She could no more halt it than she could stop Akhora’s unwanted barrage of words. If her inner harpy had been too silent of late, she was more than making up for it now.

Thannor peered over her shoulder. With one hand, he reached out, collected a bit of whatever it was and brought it to his nose. To her shock, he then tasted it. “Lembas,” he said.

“Lem-what?” Finnin asked.

“Lembas,” the Ranger said shortly, his entire frame quivering with intensity. “Elvish waybread. Someone has been here.” Then in a loud yet hushed voice, “Anuon!”

The other Ranger, no longer visible from Saldís’s vantage point, called back, “Thannor?”

“Beware. Someone has used this path. Friend or foe, I know not.”

Mutters among the dwarves. A glance between Saldís and Thannor. They continued their climb.

Time became formless. Much, Saldís considered, as it had in the Sea. There was only the need to lift one foot after the other, to force aching muscles to continue to propel her upward. 

The sky never changed. Night never ended. She’d heard of Mordor’s perpetual darkness, but it was worse than she’d imagined. 

Whether it was a matter of fifteen minutes or an hour later, she never knew, but Finnin, drawing out his brother’s spyglass as he’d taken to doing periodically, scanned their surroundings. None expected more than the routine grunt from him, the sure sign nothing was amiss. 

This time, he stiffened. Then he swore in Khuzdul, his spyglass directed down at Minas Morgul. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Dori demanded from higher up the mountain. 

Saldís’s belly flipped at the look of frustration and sympathy her dwarf bestowed upon her. Reaching down with ginger care, he passed her the spyglass. “You’d best be seeing this for yourself, _Bâhzundushuh.”_

She accepted the smooth tube of metal with reluctance. _Mahal. I don’t want to know._ Already, she carried too much. 

At the touch of Thannor’s hand upon her lower calf, a touch that conveyed his silent support, she took a deep breath, lifted the glass, and looked downward. Instantly, every muscle in her body tensed. 

_Nay._ She scanned the troops now positioned before the Dead City’s gates, frantic to ensure herself they were not who she thought them to be. 

_I told you that you could not reach them,_ Akhora sang. _They are Black Númenóreans, and not so easily led astray. Did you really thing your pretty tales would work? Your so-touching concern? They know well what that type of weakling sentiment is worth._

She didn’t wish to believe it, but the truth was revealed through the round lens of the spyglass. She recognized Mazir’s reddish-brown hair and Kizon’s straw-blond shaggy mop. There… There was Yanar near their front lines with Gylmal at his side. 

Her Novices had chosen, and they’d chosen wrong. 

Her heart gave a painful spasm, and doubts arose, asking if Barhador’s death, if Himon’s, had been worth it. If perhaps the Black Company’s mission had been doomed from the start. 

“Saldís?” Thannor’s hand on her calf squeezed gently, a reminder he was waiting. 

“It’s the Novices,” she told him heavily. “They’re…” She shoved the glass into Thannor’s hands. “They chose. It wasn’t us.”

Thannor’s eyebrows flew upwards, but he accepted the spyglass and began his own visual sweep. Saldís left him, climbing the few stairs separating her from Finnin so that she could wrap an arm around Finnin’s waist from behind, squeezing him tight. 

Her Novices. In Mordor. When all she’d wished was to see them spared such a fate. 

_I told you,_ Akhora drawled. _Sentiment will be your undoing. Have you learned nothing all these years?_

“Talk to me, my Saldís,” Finnin whispered, the fingers of one of his hands twining with hers. And by her soul, she needed it to contain the shrieks of, “Nay!” begging for voice. Adâd. Uncle Bofur. Berenor. And now her Novices. ‘Twas beyond her capabilities to save them all, even if she unleashed Akhora. 

“You saw. The Novices,” she told him in a thick voice as Thannor swore something heavily in Sindarin. “I failed.” Which meant Orodon was likely dead. Erynor and Calenor… A spear of anguish. _Finnur._ By Durin, had they slain Finnin’s brother?

_Mahal._ They’d left their friends with Yahzin at the Cross-roads. Had The Brothers possessed the sense to hide from the Novices? 

Finnin’s head bowed. “This is none of your doing. The choice was theirs.” His next inhale was a shuddering one, and she squeezed him the tighter, a hollow feeling growing in her belly. Nay, there was not much more she could have done or changed where the Novices were concerned…but her heart throbbed with remorse nonetheless. 

As the rest of the climbers reacted with dismay, she dropped her head to rest it against the wall of muscles that lined Finnin’s back.

Aye, she’d failed.

_You’ll fail your precious “Adâd”, too,_ Akhora crooned.


	54. Welcome to Mordor

_**Minas Morgul** _

Sweat collected within Erynor’s scalp and trickled down the back of his neck. An orc had met the Novices’ party as soon as the group had crossed Minas Morgul’s threshold. The orc had looked them over and asked pointed questions about their missing members. 

Erynor was left with one conclusion: Ne-Mahris had crossed this way first. If she’d remained here, this brilliant plot of the Novices’ would have ended before it had begun. The two Brothers would likely have joined Berenor and died horribly. 

Calenor had answered the orc’s questions with an air of impatience before reporting Akhora’s sudden defection, spinning a tale about the fight that had ensued en route to the Cross-roads. He painted a picture of the commander slaying the missing Novices in her bid for freedom, and that she’d taken the dwarf and unknown man with her. When asked why they had not pursued, he answered that they had been commanded to bring the Novices to Mordor and report the recent activities of the Blue Wizards to Ar-Cavendor. 

Now, Novices and Rangers traveled with an orc escort along the extensive, uphill series of streets through what had once been a majestic example of Númenórean architecture. Calenor had not attempted to argue their presence, and Erynor hadn’t either—the entire time, a Ringwraith had haunted the rooftop of Minas Dú, both tower and wraith sights he’d never expected to see. Dread had poured down on the group in a torrent, but Saldís’s Novices, as he now thought of them, endured with tight lips and blank faces. 

In short, they weathered it better than many grown men would…and _had_ according to the Rangers’ annals.

Minas Dú. As their _emala_ padded deeper and higher into the city, he could not help but look back at the famed tower. Once, the men of Numenor had studied the stars from its heights. They had watched the skies’ turning and the movements of the heavenly bodies, delighting at each new discovery, much as Minas Tirith, once Minas Anor, had once been devoted to studying the sun. 

Lost. So much lost, and for a moment, the passing of those glorious times grieved him. 

Then his face hardened. The past was gone. The future was yet to be decided.

_You’ll take nothing more from us,_ he directed at Melkor, the Darkness, and all that was in Mordor. _Nothing._

OoOoOo

_  
**Pass of Cirith Ungol**  
_

Nori glowered at the web-draped pass before them. On either side of the narrow cleft between the Mountains of Shadow, unscalable walls of rock soared high enough as to make a dwarf dizzy trying to see the tops…if’n there was sufficient light to see them.

“Spiders,” he muttered. “Always, it’s the spiders.”

Dori nodded commiseratively, Bifur’s boar spear held defensively before his body. 

“You don’t like spiders?” Anuon asked without turning. The red-haired Ranger stepped into the pass, one hand gripping his scimitar and the other holding a torch aloft.

“Try almost being eaten by one,” Nori said. “Then ask me if you like spiders.”

“Mirkwood,” Saldís said. “This time there will be no Bilbo Baggins to free us should we run into trouble.”

Nori hefted his mace and followed her into the rift, muscles bunched and eyes glaring balefully at every flutter of the webs as wind sent them to dancing. _Mahal._ “Thank you for reminding me o’ that, my fine Niece. That makes this so much better.”

Her grin flashed, brief and burdened, but there. ‘Twas a sight he rejoiced to see, one almost making up for the plight he found himself in.

Almost. 

Nori’s skin crawled the farther into the rift they traveled. To either side, caves appeared, dark foul-smelling pits o’ blackness that pressed in on him like eyes. Once or twice, his ears thought they detected a skittering noise, and he whirled to face the offending cave with mace hefted and heart a-thumping like mad. 

Dori took up position at his side without word, and the Ri brothers faced this new peril as Ri brothers should: together. 

Finnin, the ex-thief noted, had positioned himself beside Saldís with that big ax of his—returned to him by his brother—at the ready. Keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings, he was (Nori was glad to see it), and also on his lady. Something Nori should have been doing, but with spiders… 

Nori shuddered and entrusted her to Finnin. Not his proudest moment, but then, Nori and spiders had not mixed well since the Company of Thorin Oakenshield’s trek through Thranduil’s blighted woods. 

‘Twas inevitable, he supposed, that of them all, it should be Nori to suddenly be slammed off his feet, thrown by a bulbous, furry body into one o’ the gaping pits pretending to be respectable caves, and then find himself eye-to-spine with a stinger big enough to impale any fool stupid enough to wait for it to strike.

That, Nori wasn’t. He scrambled into motion, wiggling to win free from beneath the spider’s body. The stinger slammed down, scratching against the solid stone to the right of his head. It struck again, the stinger impacting to Nori’s left thanks to a bit o’ quick contorting on his part. 

“Nori!” he heard his niece and brother shout as he wedged his legs between himself and the overgrown insect. A mighty heave, and it toppled over his head ere that stinger managed to successfully land a hit. 

_Urkhas flaming kûd!_

Quick as spit, he was on his feet, his mace before him in a two-handed hold as the spider recovered and sprang at him…but missed. And not by a wee foot or two. 

_What is this?_

The massive creature landed yards to Nori’s right, and its legs lashed out as if seeking for him. As if the accursed monster couldn’t…see? His mace lowered an inch or two. His head cocked to one side.

‘Twas then he noticed the thing dripped ichor from a couple wounds upon its body. Aye, the creature had run afoul of something strong enough to bite back, and that brought a snort to Nori’s lips. “Not your day, laddie,” he told it. “Not by a long shot.”

Its day took a turn for the worse when Dori arrived. Plowing through remnant webs like they were but parchment, Dori roared with a fury Nori had rarely seen. Like a battering ram, he was, with Bifur’s spear in his hands…a spear that soon began to poke large holes in the spider.

“Get away from my brother!” Dori bellowed. 

The spider _screamed._ Black goo flew in all directions as it thrashed about wildly, trying to get away. It swung its evil-looking stinger about in arcs, but the longer Nori watched, the more he was convinced: the creature was absolutely blind. Its attacks were random. Unfocused.

Saldís reached him, a wee bit out o’ breath. “Nori,” she panted. Then she frowned at him. “Why aren’t you helping Dori?”

Nori tugged on her adoption braid. “I’m not thinking Dori’s needing any help. Besides, that spider? Blind as a bat.”

Her head whipped around. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Let Dori have his fun. Between you and me, I think he’s got some anger needing an outlet.”

A shouted Khuzdul curse—from _Dori,_ Nori savored with glee—brought their attention (and the rest o’ the late arrivals’) to where Dori chased after the spider, demanding it return and face him _right now._

‘Twas a memory Nori vowed to cherish.

OoOoOo

_  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor**  
_

It was not their fault. 

So Erynor repeated to himself over and over again while he and Calenor wiggled back to back. The little monsters had turned on them. 

_Not turned on. Overruled,_ a part of him corrected, but Erynor was not in the mood to be pacified. 

Bad enough to be strong-armed into bringing them through Minas Morgul. Bad enough to have to endure passing by a Ringwraith. But then— _then!_ —the moment they’d crested the winding crown of Minas Morgul to step out upon the Plateau of Gorgoroth, the deranged Novices had attacked their orc escorts in silent unison—at no signal Erynor detected and without a single word of warning! 

The orcs had been slaughtered. Over two dozen were felled by the ninety-three Novices in less time than it would have taken a whole squad of Swan Knights, he was sure. 

Then, the brats had professed their intent to report to Ar-Cavendor and tell the man that Ne-Hilliz had been slain by one of the wraiths for some infraction, leaving them to make their solitary way across Mordor. When Erynor and Calenor had attempted to reason with them, they’d been all but patted on the head, informed they were no longer useful, and left _tied up_ and out of sight near the base of the path leading down from the pass of Cirith Ungol. 

With instructions to inform _Ib_ -Saldís their plans. 

“They’re monsters,” he growled under his breath. 

“Cheer up,” Calenor said, earning Erynor’s glower. “They _are_ thinking for themselves.”

“I don’t count this an improvement,” Erynor snapped. _Eru. She’s going to murder us._

“Sit still,” Calenor hissed over his shoulder. “I can’t untie these knots with you fidgeting.”

Erynor growled again and sat still, feeling Calenor’s fingers fumbling upon the ropes around his wrists. This, he decided, was too embarrassing. He, a trained Ranger of the North, one of the mighty Dunedain, line of kings, had been treated like a misbehaving child by a bunch of teenagers. 

He felt Calenor’s fingers gain purchase on the knots of his bonds, then slip. Then again. Each time, his frustration climbed. 

Tied up. In Mordor. _We’ll never live it down._

He consoled himself that no one would ever learn of it. Either some orc would stumble upon himself and Calenor and put them out of their misery, or some warg. 

_Or Saldís will do the honors._

He sighed, knowing she wouldn’t. No, Erynor’s honorary cousin would give them a tongue lashing then help them to fix this, he was sure. 

What he didn’t count upon was the arrival of a slender girl dressed all in black, a head scarf obscuring all but her green eyes. A girl too slender to be anything _but_ a girl. 

With no words, she reached between the two men with her knife and cut their bonds. Coolly. Perfunctorily. Then she did the same to the ropes around their ankles. 

“Your gear is over there,” she said, pointing with her blade.

Only then did Erynor realize. Forget Saldís. _Thannor_ was going to kill him. “Yahzin!” he sputtered. Then harder, “What are you doing here?”

“Never mind that,” Calenor said. _“How_ did you get here?”

Her eyes crinkled at the edges. One shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “I followed. Ziphora covered for me.”

“How did you get past Minas Morgul?” Erynor asked on a high note, thrashing free of the rest of his ankle bonds and rising.

“I was with you,” she said shortly. “You just didn’t know it.”

Wait. Erynor remembered distinctly counting heads. “How?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” she said shortly. “I owe my father. I am _going_ to find my brother. You two do as you wish.”

Erynor rubbed his face. “Remind me never to procreate.”

His brother clapped him on the back. “I don’t think either of us is likely to live long enough for that,” Calenor drawled. Then more soberly, “Do we stop her?”

Erynor lifted tired eyes to him. “Do you think we can?”

“Short of tying her up? No.”

He hated hearing Calenor confirm his own conclusion. With a grunt, Erynor broke into a jog, gathering his gear on his way to catch up with the girl. Maybe if he and Calenor kept her alive, Thannor would merely kill them and not skin them alive slowly.

OoOoOo

Calenor hesitated, his gaze going up towards the mountain path from which Thannor, Anuon, Saldís and the dwarves should descend to the plateau. How long they’d be, there was no telling.

 _Or if,_ a pessimistic voice offered. Who knew if the Stairs were even intact after so many generations of weathering.

He glanced over one shoulder. Erynor had just reached Yahzin’s side. _We cannot send her back. Where else can she go?_ Answer: nowhere. There was literally no place to send her. They were in Mordor. 

If some difficulty thwarted Thannor and the others from crossing into Mordor, then all rested in Calenor, Erynor, Yahzin, and a bunch of Novices’ hands, a thought that sent icy shivers through his spine. 

Urgency counseled that any delay was unwise. He could not leave a message for Thannor and Saldís, for what if another discovered it? His lips twisted. 

_Do what is necessary._ How often had Calenor heard that from Halbarad and Barhador?

He hurried after the other two, collecting his gear as Erynor had done. The Novices had left it off to one side not far from where their orc victims littered the ground. 

_Alright. Find Berenor. Find Bifur and Bofur. Get out of Mordor with Saldís’s Novices. In one piece._

He rotated his shoulders. Shook his head. They were doomed.

OoOoOo

_  
**Gondor**  
_

Orodon and the Novices rode hard, a sense of urgency driving them on through the night. They rested only when the _emala_ required it. Word must reach Aragorn about the Black Company’s successes…and failures. 

If it was not already too late. Everywhere, Orodon saw evidence a massive army had passed here, and he feared Minas Tirith might already have fallen. 

If that had happened, what next? Where, if his king lived, would Aragorn position himself to stem the tide of Mordor from flooding across the rest of Middle Earth? 

With such worries plaguing Orodon, and the silent way the Novices not gagged and bound went about tending to their own needs and their mounts, he forgave himself for failing to notice the absence of one sooner. He consoled himself that he was not alone in missing the obvious. 

He stiffened the instant he realized. He’d left with nine prisoner Novices and six girls. He was sure of it. Now, he was short one girl, and a quick inspection told him who it was he had lost. Yahzin.

“Finnur,” he murmured to the bleary-eyed dwarf seated upon an equally tired _emala_ beside him. 

“Eh?” 

“We are short one Novice.”

The dwarf whipped around, causing the bird beneath him to squawk its displeasure. Just as fast, he twisted back around to stare up into Orodon’s face. “You think we have a traitor?”

If only. Orodon shook his head. “No. I think we’ve misplaced Thannor’s new daughter.”

Finnur groaned. “She snuck away, you mean. To follow after Thannor.”

“I believe so.”

Finnur gave his beard a big tug. “Outdone by children. We’ll never be living this down.” A sigh. “I’ll go after her.”

“We haven’t the time. Mordor has marched,” he said, gesturing to the churned up land to either side of the road. “We must press on. Osgiliath is not far. Look.” Orodon lifted a hand to point. 

“If it remains in men’s hands. Face it, laddie, we may have naught to press on _for,”_ the dwarf muttered.

Orodon tried to ignore Finnur’s pessimism, but deep inside, he feared the dwarf might be right.

OoOoOo

_  
**Pass of Cirith Ungol**  
_

Saldís sank onto her haunches at the crown of the pass of Cirith Ungol, the whole of Mordor splayed before her. After the spider, there had been a small outpost of orcs to contend with, one that the members of the Black Company had grimly executed in silence. 

_Mostly silent._ Her lips lifted in a tired smile. Finnin and Dori had shouted Khuzdul war cries as they’d slammed their way into the thickest part of the orc force. Saldís had shrugged and jumped in behind them, lifting her sword for the first time beside Finnin, and finding the experience exhilarating. Not once did she doubt he had her back covered, just as she took pains to ensure no blade slipped past her to threaten him. 

This…this was partnership, she’d realized, and when the fight had finished, she could not help but lower her blade and whisper, “Partners.” ‘Twas the best she could do to convey all that had rushed through her in that moment.

“Aye,” he’d said. “To the end.”

Now, here she perched, the sheer scope of Sauron’s might displayed in all its terrible glory. Finnin squatted behind her in armor stolen from one of the slain orcs at the outpost, the matching helmet resting on the ground by his side. Finnin’s chin dropped to her shoulder and he wrapped arms around her waist. “Talk to me, Saldís.”

She leaned back into him, trusting in his strength to prevent them from toppling over, while to one side, Anuon held Finnur’s spyglass to his eye. “It’s so vast, Finnin,” she said. “So much more than I’d thought. How am I to find Adâd in…” One hand gestured a the vista filled with flickering campfires.

“We’ll find them,” he assured her.

“How?” she asked in a self-disgusted growl, twisting in his grasp and changing to a sideways seat with her side pressed up against his chest. She didn’t much care how badly the chest piece he wore reeked, she needed to be closer to her dwarf. 

But by Mahal, she resented his orc gear. Aye, ‘twas necessary, but she hated that it kept her from feeling his warmth. There was something infinitely…compelling…to her about Finnin’s broad chest and its thick mat of hair. It was nothing like any Black Númenórean’s. 

Or Gart’s. 

Before he answered, she said in a hollow voice, “Which do I choose? _How_ do I choose? Every part of me screams to find Adâd, but Berenor is down there. He’s so young, Finnin. How do I leave him to this? And my Novices… I cannot abandon them. I have to try reach them. Maybe if I try once more…”

One hand stroked down her back. “She’s pestering you again, isn’t she?” Finnin asked, murmuring the words into her hair as he tucked her closer against him. 

Her laugh was watery, tinted with exhaustion. The Company had halted to sleep a scant couple of hours at the top of the Secret Stair, but ‘twas not sufficient. Not hardly. “She hasn’t stopped. She sees her chance, and she’s doing all she can to prove to me how useless all of this is without her toughness behind it.”

“That,” he growled, “is a lie. Don’t you be heeding her. You fight her, you hear me?” His grasp turned almost painful in its intensity.

By her soul, she didn’t understand how she’d survived before him. Her right hand lifted to his bearded cheek and trailed over it in a lingering caress. “I do love you.”

‘Twas when he stiffened, his blue eyes burning down at her that she realized it was the first time she’d uttered the words. Before she could apologize—’twas insane now to remember how she’d feared his love—his lips claimed hers with a heat they’d had no time to explore since the cliffs above Caeldor. 

His kiss was magic, pure and good. Fire rushed through her veins, molten fire that scorched her with delicious heat. When he guided her head just so, tilting to adjust the angle, a small moan escaped her as it turned all the hotter.

_Mahal._

“All right! All right! I’m gouging my eyes out. I can’t be unseeing this!” came Nori’s voice a split-second before Dori physically hefted her aloft by her waist and carted her away from Finnin. Like Finnin, her uncles were clad in orcish gear that stank to high heaven.

“When,” Dori snapped at his brother, “did this happen?”

“You saw him give her the courtship bracelet and braid,” Nori defended himself. 

“Not that,” Dori scolded. “This kissing business.” Dori set Saldís down firmly on her feet and then wagged a big finger in her face. “There’s a proper time and place for such things,” he said. “Such things are _private.”_

“Master Dwarves,” Thannor said, “is this really the place for this?”

“Yes!” both of her uncles proclaimed at the same time. 

‘Twas like a beam of pure sunlight to her soul, and Saldís found herself laughing, then laughing all the harder as all of them looked at her as if she’d gone mad. 

Wiping a mirthful tear from her face, she tugged upon Dori’s beard. “Alright, Uncle. We’ll discuss the etiquette involved in kissing as soon as we are free of Mordor,” she said with forced sobriety, though she didn’t think he believed her. Must have had something to do with the way her shoulders refused to stop shaking. 

Beyond him, Finnin winked saucily. Saldís blew him a kiss—Mahal, what was wrong with her?—and stepped to Thannor’s side, falling in beside him as he began the descent down to the Plateau of Gorgoroth.

She lost all vestiges of amusement as reality once more returned. Laughing and kissing when... “I’m sorry, Cousin,” she whispered to him.

Thannor’s eyes slid her way, though his pace didn’t slack. “You have no need to apologize,” he said softly, his tone somber. “Never throw away the chance to tell someone that you love them. You never know when it will be the last.”

Like Berenor. Like Adâd. 

“The Novices headed north,” Thannor continued. She followed the direction of his gaze and shuddered to see the Eye’s burning gaze beaming a narrow spot of light onto the lands around it, a beam that never remained still as it skated over Sauron’s forces. “I imagine the Black Númenóreans have been stationed close to him and the Black Gates.” Again, his gaze touched hers briefly. “What do you intend?”

Saldís tapped the hilt of her sword, cognizant of Finnin’s presence at her back. ‘Twas like a new sixth sense, it was, this awareness of him. A welcome one. “I cannot simply abandon them,” she said, her voice thick. “I’ll have to try to reach them somehow. I must talk to them once more.”

“They’ve made their choice,” Thannor said, sorrow and frustration lacing his words. “It will end almost certainly in your capture.”

Saldís exhaled slowly, her eyes searching below for her young ones without success. They were lost among the orc throngs filling the plateau. “I promised them that I’d never forsake them.” 

She shook herself, ignoring Akhora’s derisive laughter ringing in the back of her mind. “We find Berenor and Adâd first. All else must wait.” She felt a pang but refused to let it deter her. “We three,” she gestured to herself and the Rangers, “should be able to move about freely so long as we keep our head scarves in place.”

“Given the fumes said to permeate the air down there, I imagine most of the Black Númenóreans will be doing the same,” Thannor commented.

Saldís nodded her agreement. She glanced behind. “The orc armor should hide the dwarves so long as we avoid any wargs.”

Thannor hummed in the back of his throat. “So be it. Are you ready to enter Mordor, Cousin, and reclaim our loved ones?”

_Aye._ Aye, and aye, and aye again. ‘Twas past time to do some damage to Mordor. 

Whatever damage they could.


	55. Blindsided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The members of the Grey Company, all but Halbarad, are the creation of Standing Stones Games. I don't own 'em, but I'm using 'em since I already had my plate full of original characters. :P The story behind Golodir, his daughter, and Mordirith is one of the most compelling in Lord of the Rings Online, and while I have yet to discover the end of it, Golodir captured my imagination. SSG may not have given him a happy ending--I have no idea--but I determined to. His suffering should not be for nothing, IMHO. :)

_**Plateau of Gorgoroth  
22 March TA 3019** _

Urgency. It thrummed through Saldís’s veins and curdled like sour milk upon her tongue. Each beat of the heart, each pound of her boots upon the rocky, winding trail descending the final distance from the Pass of Cirith Ungol to the cracked earth of the plateau below was underscored by urgency’s frenetic tempo. Even the jangle of the dwarves’ stolen orcish armor carried the tune.

None spoke. When she glimpsed their profiles, her friends were taut of jaw and hard of eye. Aye, they all felt it. 

_‘Tis time._

The knowledge resounded through her like the ringing of a bell. All of Saldís’s life lay spread before her forming a pattern that pointed inexorably to this place and time. Here, her future and that of Middle Earth would be decided for good or ill. 

Akhora, she concluded, shared the conviction, for with each step of Saldís’s descent into Mordor proper, she could feel Akhora ready herself for the final showdown between them. Their battle for dominance would end in this dark, accursed land, some instinct whispered, and Akhora for one believed it entirely.

Aye, Akhora went on the offensive. 

‘Twas not brute force Akhora used this time. Nothing so easy. Though Saldís said not a word to her companions (what use worrying them when there was naught they could do?), her nemesis had unearthed a new weapon to add to her arsenal: emotion. 

And why not? ‘Twas Saldís who experienced all the facets and depths of the heart, not Akhora. Nay, Akhora felt naught but hatred and rage, and her darker self relished them. 

Akhora acted like a bellows, fanning the flames of Saldís’s own fears and doubts until they roared like an inferno…with Akhora delighting in this new toy all the while. 

Saldís could have screamed in frustration. Truly? When discovery would spell death, Akhora attempted to turn Saldís into a jittery, distracted mess? Was that other part of her utterly lacking in self-preservation? Was she deranged?

 _Foolish question._ Of course Akhora was. On both counts.

With one hand, Akhora whispered sweetly that she’d aid Saldís’s loved ones…for a price…since Akhora’s life was on the line, too. But with the other, Akhora heightened Saldís’s sense of desperation by taunting her with images of Adâd: images of Bifur a broken, bleeding wreck on a nondescript floor, images of him writhing beneath an unseen assault, or Bifur screaming as an Arcanist tore the skin from his back. 

The graphic permutations were varied and too numerous to recount, but they served their purpose. They whittled away at Saldís’s assurance that she was right to forge forward as Saldís and not loose Akhora. 

If she was wrong, and Adâd died…

 _Urkhas kûd._ Her nemesis was in earnest, and Saldís could not afford to ignore the outside world long enough to face Akhora squarely. Unlike her enemy, Saldís had other demands upon her attention. She was in _Mordor,_ curse Kimilzor to the deepest reaches of the Pit.

Finnin’s head tilted, and a worried sideways look came her way from within a horribly grotesque helmet with its own maw of razor-like teeth. Without breaking stride, he trailed the backs of his metal-gloved fingers down her cheek, his eyes a world of promise. 

_“Bâhzundushuh.”_ Then a second, deeper look. _“Therek ikhlit,”_ he murmured. (Hold steady.)

He knew. ‘Twas a ray of warmth after Forochel’s frozen snows. He’d not leave her to fight Akhora alone. Adâd might not be beside her, but Finnin was. Nori and Dori, too. 

Her lips flickered in the barest of smiles. She faced forward. 

_So be it._ The roiling of her emotions mattered not. She would hold fast, free Adâd, Uncle Bofur and Berenor, talk sense into her Novices, and get them all out of Mordor intact. All while finding some way to undermine Mordor from within.

A tall order, but failure was not an option. As the ground beneath her boots transitioned from unyielding stone to the cracked, crunchy dirt of the plateau, the certainty drove home like a spike.

Aye, it all came down to this.

OoOoOo

Finnin kept a close, close eye on his lassie, though he endeavored not to betray his alarm.

Akhora was at work. That was as apparent to him as the disgusting stench saturating his stolen gear. His beautiful Weapon said naught, but he’d caught glimpses—aye, he had—of frustration and fear upon her face. 

_Don’t you be heeding her whispers, Bâhzundushuh._

Once again, he closed the distance between them as their party raced across the flat and baked plateau towards the road they’d spied from the top of the Pass of Cirith Ungol. From what the companions had seen from above, the road would carry them a good ways north… _if_ their disguises held well enough to fool enemy eyes. 

Ahead of him, Finnin watched as Thannor and Anuon quickly donned their head scarves to hide their features. Aye, and to protect their nostrils and lungs from the fumes filling the air. By the Maker, this land was cursed. The land was barren of aught that was good and pure, from the skies to the very air and water. 

Saldís was slower to wrap her scarf around her face. Proof enough the inner struggle was distracting his lady. 

_You’ll not win,_ he rumbled to Akhora. That one might have the ruthlessness, but his Saldís had the heart. 

But by Durin, he burned with frustration. He wished there was more he could do to aid his love than standing by her side. His ax was desperate for a foe to vent his spleen upon, and that was no understatement. 

As he and his lass ran side-by-side, Finnin did not break the silence, but he intentionally allowed his arm to brush hers—gently, given the wretched armor he wore. A reminder, the touch, that he was there, and he was gratified to spy a softening in the lines bracketing her eyes.

OoOoOo

__  
**Morgai, Mordor**  


Yahzin hugged the Morgai as she made her way north, thankful the two Rangers had stopped trying to pester her out of saving Berenor. She wasn’t a kid. She was a Weapon, and more, she was now Thannor’s daughter. What kind of daughter abandoned her family at the first sign of danger?

 _Not any kind of daughter I want to be,_ she thought scornfully. 

Besides, if she intended to be a Ranger—and she did—then her place was here. This was where the line was drawn, where the fate of all of Arda would be decided. 

“Where are you leading us?” Erynor whispered as he closed the distance between them. 

“North,” she said. His eyes rolled above his scarf, and she felt her lips curving upwards. “The Isenmouthe,” she clarified. “The Black Númenóreans will be there.”

Erynor’s head cocked to one side, his gaze intent upon the land around them. “What are the chances Berenor or the dwarves are held elsewhere?”

Yahzin hadn’t wanted to think too much about that. The Isenmouthe was the most likely place for the Dark Lord to keep valuable prisoners. Orcs were notoriously unreliable, both due to intellect and animalistic appetites. “Doubtful,” she said at last. “Unless they are moved to Barad-dur. The Mouth is sometimes there.”

“The Mouth?” Calenor asked from just behind. 

She frowned. “You know about the Mouth.” A flash of uncertainty. “Don’t you?”

At their blank expressions, she hastily rectified their ignorance, nodding as each man adopted an expression of horror. She was gratified that they believed her without question, for the story was bizarre. 

Yahzin sincerely hoped the former Lord Sangahyando did not have the prisoners. Yahzin had seen the Mouth, and she didn’t want to go anywhere near him. She would if she had to, but…

 _Don't borrow trouble._ Chances were the other Novices were actively working—tracking down the prisoners and _maybe_ poisoning a Lord or two. (Unlikely, but she liked the idea.) With any luck, they’d already be in position to get Berenor free.

Then would come the harder part. How was she to get her new brother out of Mordor? How was she to alert their father if she did so? 

Perhaps, she admitted privately, she hadn’t considered all the consequences of her actions. Unfortunately, the realization came too late to be of any use. 

There was no going back.

OoOoOo

__  
**Pass of Cirith Ungol**  


Valkthor’s fingers hovered above a drying pool of blood, one of many left in the wake of a scene of unexpected slaughter. None of the orc defenders stationed at the outpost protecting the eastern end of the pass of Cirith Ungol had survived. 

_How did you do it?_ That it was Akhora went without saying. The imprint of a dwarf-sized boot within the sticky splotch of blood confirmed what Valkthor had already known. Somehow, his dear sister had found another way into Mordor, one that shouldn’t have been possible. 

_So where are you now?_ With one knee on the ground just beyond the reach of the inky black mess, his gaze turned both eastward and then westward. 

She wasn’t alone. The dwarf footprint confirmed that. But how many of the runts had come with her? One? Dozens? More? 

He rose abruptly, nostrils flared. He cracked his neck side to side, relieving tension. The pounding that had drummed in his ears since the moment the Mouth had slapped him—not struck with a fist as one would a worthy opponent, but _slapped_ —had not abated since. 

This, all of this, was Akhora’s fault. She was a blight on his existence, and this time, he’d take care of her himself. 

He wouldn’t kill her. He dared not with the Mouth’s threats ringing in his ears. “Bring her to me,” the monster who’d been his father had said, tapping fingertips before his chest. “Or I will disembowel you alive and leave you for the orcs to feast upon.”

That Akhora lived at all was Valkthor’s mistake, he’d been told. One simple spell, the calling of blood to blood, and Valkthor would have known Akhora survived Dale. It had been on the tip of his tongue to snap that Kimilzor could have done the same, but he’d swallowed back the words. 

Valkthor had stormed away from the Mouth’s headquarters at Ost Egla and immediately grabbed an _emala_ and spurred it south. Akhora wouldn’t attempt Minas Morgul—loitering there in the futile hope that she’d hand herself over was a fool’s act. He’d expected the first incantation of the kin spell to lead him elsewhere. Perhaps Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth.

Not here. 

_How did she sneak past Shelob?_ Valkthor hadn’t even known the creature existed until arriving in Mordor, so Akhora would have been ignorant of the threat. And Shelob, he’d learned, had a reputation.

 _One vastly overinflated,_ he growled to himself. 

So. Akhora had come for her dwarves. Instead of having to track her across Middle Earth, she’d come within Valkthor’s reach. All he must do was lure her away from the rest of the dwarves with her, an army no doubt. 

_You really are a sentimental fool,_ he told her. He could probably sit back and let her and her allies walk into the Mouth’s trap, but that he wouldn’t do. He wanted to get his hands on her first. Alone. He had a debt he intended to extract. Only after would he take what was left to Kimilzor. 

The dwarf army, he’d report as soon as he returned to the Isenmouthe. _Let Ar-Cavendor deal with them._ A picture grew in his mind: an army of runts running for their lives from a massive pack of wargs. He snickered at the idea.

Valkthor pricked his index finger with the point of his dagger. After sheathing the weapon, he squeezed a couple drops of blood onto his opposite hand. Calling upon his magics, he murmured the spell, gratified when the crimson beads flashed to red vapor. The vapor immediately twisted and undulated its way through the air like a weightless serpent.

It would not be long-lived. Most likely, he’d have to repeat the spell a number of times before he found Akhora, but find her, he would.

 _She only needs to be alive,_ he reminded himself. _The Mouth never said she needed to be in one piece._

OoOoOo

__  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth**  


The silence among them had persisted so long, it was almost a shock when Thannor broke it. “Cousin, one of us needs to search Minas Morgul.”

Saldís bit back heated words, knowing her irritation and foul temper were less due to Thannor broaching a subject she’d thought settled hours before and more to do with Akhora’s infernal plucking at her emotions. 

To her left, Finnin’s shoulder again brushed hers. Gently. Intentionally, Saldís was convinced by now. Aye, her warrior knew she struggled, and he reminded her of his presence. 

By her soul, she did not deserve this dwarf, but she’d never cease to be thankful for him. He did not badger her with words or demand she halt and tell him all that transpired in her own mind—he was as aware as she of the urgent need to press on. Nay, he supported and watched as she’d asked of him days before in Harondor.

Saldís’s gaze panned to her right, directing her attention southward to where Minas Morgul lay hidden from her site. “They won’t be there.” 

Was it Thannor she hoped to convince, or herself? For like Thannor, she had doubts, doubts Akhora was only to happy to feed. 

_You are not sure,_ Akhora drawled. _Admit it. Poor pathetic Saldis. **Hoping** and **wishing.**_ A picture formed, courtesy of Akhora: Bifur cowering as one of the Nine—nay, the Witch-King—loomed over him. 

A shudder wracked its way down her spine. _Mahal._ Bifur couldn’t be in the Dead City. Surely the Dark Lord would not risk it. 

All, _all_ depended on her adâd, uncle and cousin being where she expected them to be: the Isenmouthe. Nothing else made sense. To keep captives in the Dead City was to risk their sanity and lives given the terror the Nine exuded without fail. To keep captives elsewhere under orc control was to risk them being killed in an orcish fit of temper…or an orc’s appetites. 

Nay, they had to be at the Isenmouthe.

 _You could be wrong,_ Akhora sang. 

“So you’ve said,” her cousin said somberly. “I’m not discounting your words, but can we afford a mistake?” Thannor’s steps slowed, and the rest of them instantly matched him. 

Saldís conducted another scan of the region. For now, the area was empty, but she did not trust that to last long. This was _Mordor._ “We need to move,” she snapped, impatience surging with renewed fears for her loved ones.

Instantly, eyes all around darkened with concern. She pinched the bridge of her nose. 

It was Nori who broke the terse silence. “Do you think the orcs heard Durin’s folk were coming and ran?” Nori asked, his voice turned hollow by his helmet. Even so, his smirk was evident in his voice. “I’d never heard Mordor was empty o’ the blighted things, yet here we stand, not a single orc in sight.”

‘Twas enough to drag a snort from her. A weak one, aye, but a real one nonetheless. 

Nori’s too-knowing eyes met hers from within his macabre helmet. “One step at a time. Aye?”

Saldís dipped her head in a minute, uncertain nod. Dori tromped to her opposite side with a clang of armor and wrapped an arm around her waist. 

“Now, what’s your thinking, Thannor-lad?” Nori asked.

Saldís’s cousin faced south. “We cannot afford to be wrong. One of us should search Minas Morgul, and of us all, I’m the most suited to the task.”

Saldís stiffened instantly. Split up? _Nay._ A large part of her violently rejected the mere idea. Dori’s arm tightened around her, the only reason she remained mute.

Thannor stepped close. His hand came to her shoulder. “Of us all, I’m the best tracker. Trust me. I can and will find you after I’ve satisfied myself that our friends are not in the Dead City.” A pause. A deep, penetrating look. “We must be sure. _I_ must. If there is even the slightest chance one or more of our lost companions are there, someone must search.”

Through numb lips—Akhora was masterfully stoking her fears to feverish pitch, Saldís distantly observed—she said, “We should not split up.”

Thannor squeezed her shoulder. “Time is not our ally.”

No. No, it wasn’t. 

Saldís rubbed her forehead, almost dislodging her face scarf. _Beruthiel’s accursed cats._ ‘Twas hard to know how much of her reactions were Akhora and what was natural. 

She was compelled to concede. Thannor was right. If any of their loved ones was in that city, how could they not check? 

Saldís’s hand dropped to her side. “Alright. You’ve made your case. But if you search that city, you take Anuon with you.”

Thannor’s brows flew upward. “I don’t think—”

“Done,” Anuon said, meeting her gaze steadily. Aye, he’d not budge from his brother-by-marriage’s side. _Good._

“It is not necessary,” Thannor commented mildly.

“Lad? This is Mordor. Eh…you _have_ heard of it?” At Thannor’s flash of irritation, Nori shook his head. “No one ventures off alone. If’n this is what we’ve decided, to divide our efforts, then so be it, but you take Anuon with you. Either that, or we sit on your scrawny hide and not let ya go at all.”

Saldís coughed into one fist, her eyes colliding with Finnin’s sparkling blues. Her dwarf lifted one metal-encased finger and trailed it down her cheek. 

‘Twas far from the tight embrace she yearned for, but Saldís savored it nonetheless. 

Thannor’s sigh jolted her back to the matter at hand. “So be it,” the Ranger said.

So it was decided. They would part ways upon reaching the road that stretched from Minas Morgul to the Isenmouthe.

And may the Valar be with them all.

OoOoOo

__  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  


Arcanist-Novice Yanar assembled his travel pack with haste, his jaw hard and his nerves stretched to parchment thinness. He hated Ar-Cavendor’s orders, but there was no way out of them. He was a Novice, and the Duumvirate’s decrees were absolute. Even displaying his displeasure openly would draw attention none of Ib-Saldís’s Novices could afford. 

No choice. Yanar had to join the party of adult Weapons and Arcanists being dispatched from Mordor to bulwark an ambush along the Harad Road. 

_At least I won’t be alone._ Two others had been selected, too.

“Here,” came Gylmal’s voice from his left. 

Yanar’s muscles tensed. Though he trusted his team…mostly…he berated himself for not seeing the other Novice’s approach. A tilt of the head, and he found Gylmal holding out a small package wrapped in animal hides. Yanar’s eyebrows climbed. “What is…?”

“You, Rizhir and Kyvin watch each others’ backs,” his teammate murmured. “There’s enough coriander leaf for the three of you, but just barely. Make sure you take it an hour before you eat anything dosed with purge weed.”

Purge weed. Relief flooded his veins. Ib-Saldís told them the strength unity brought. This was another demonstration of it, and he was grateful for the reminder. _Not alone,_ he lectured himself sternly. Whose idea the purge weed was, Yanar didn’t know, but it further solidified his loyalty to this group. 

Purge weed was an excellent idea, one Yanar intended to use. Poison the food supplies for the entire Black Númenórean party headed for the ambush, and even should the party’s leader, Ib-Lohrzor, command exchange of provisions—a not unheard of deterrent and precaution against just what Yanar intended—the party would never reach their destination. No, the lot of them would be incapacitated with violent, cramping diarrhea coupled with uncontrolled vomiting. Anything more than crawling would be beyond them.

Yanar’s lips twitched. No Novice over the age of ten would need Gylmal’s reminder about the coriander weed. Purge weed was a favorite, and none avoided it entirely during their training years—a dangerous lesson the Hands and Six Lords had permitted, for it taught the Novices to be very careful with provisions and to trust no one. 

The few who died of dehydration each year to purge weed were deemed small enough price to pay for such important lessons. In hindsight, Yanar fumed to know how badly he and his teammates had been used.

 _So. Use the purge weed, feign cramps until the adults have succumbed._ Tainting every Black Númenóreans’ food stash wouldn’t be easy, but at least Yanar would have Rizhir’s light fingers on his side.

After that, Yanar and his two teammates would ensure none of the adults returned to Mordor to tell tales. He refused to take risks that might endanger the teammates he left behind.

 _Risks enough already,_ he thought grimly. 

Yanar stowed both the coriander leaf and purge weed in his pack. Dangerous, to carry it in his bags, but Yanar hoped his illicit goods could be explained by inter-Novice jockeying if discovered. 

No one would suspect the truth. Not until it was too late.

“Keep watch for the commander, and by the Eye, find the prisoners,” Yanar told Gylmal. Yanar’s gaze lifted to the black-haired, bronze-skinned Weapons-Novice. “Learn what you can about the Gondorians, too. Arcanist spies claim the men are marching on the Black Gate, and it makes no sense. Minas Morgul is closer.” He shook his head with frustration. “The men are up to something. We need to know what so we can plan.” 

Yanar finished latching his pack and hoisted it over one shoulder. Rizhir and Kyvin joined him, both Arcanist-Novices carrying similar packs. Again to Gylmal, Yanar said, “If we succeed and survive this ambush attempt, we’ll attempt to join the Gondorians.”

“That wise?” Gylmal’s shoulder brushed Yanar’s, a solidarity still new and, by the Eye, good. 

“Ib-Saldís intended us to find that Aragorn. We’ll seek him out. Ziphora’s group, too. The Gondorians need to know they are being watched. The accursed…” A pause. A realignment of thinking with a small frown. How much of what he’d believed was true? “Valar only know how they haven’t spotted the girls yet. Better make plans, because if our teammates are with the Gondorians, suspicions will fall our way as soon as they are spotted.” 

Yanar hid his reservations about “Lord Aragorn” and the Gondorians. He trusted his commander because she was one of them, but he found it a struggle to stretch that trust much farther. The Dunedain had no reason to care or side with a bunch of enemy children. Not that he understood, anyway.

Plus, Yanar and his two teammates wore the Eye pendant…for now. Little could they risk tossing the wretched things when in the middle of Mordor, but for Yanar, his pendant’s presence was no longer a source of pride.

He and the rest of Ib-Saldís’s Arcanist-Novices had discussed the matter privately. Each confessed to detecting an unsettling wrongness coming from the pendants since before reaching the Cross-roads. Whether it had been there all along and gone unnoticed, they weren’t sure, but it was there now. Perhaps the pendants knew the Novices’ loyalties had turned elsewhere? 

Thus far only Harval had overridden the new aversion they all struggled with to use the sorcery that was an Arcanist’s trade. What he’d reported from a simple cloaking spell unnerved them all. 

A blackness had come over the thirteen year old’s mind, the feeling of absolute evil. Harval had informed the rest of the Arcanist-Novices that he refused to touch sorcery again. Not without first hearing Ib-Saldís’s wisdom on the matter, and maybe not even then.

The rest of them had followed Harval’s example. Absolute evil? To Yanar, that spelled the Dark Lord, and if that were so, wouldn’t he pick up on the Novices’ treason if they used their spells, especially if they wore his device?

 _We’re all Weapons now._ It was frustrating. Yanar felt hobbled. Handicapped. In _Mordor,_ by the Eye. There couldn’t have been a worse time to be stripped of his magics.

The lure of embracing that sorcery anyway sang to him incessantly, and he worried one of his peers might succumb to it. It was a worry he could do nothing about, not without destroying the team Ib-Saldís had formed them into, and if that happened, the Novices might as well give up and rejoin their “people”. 

_Never._

Yanar cleared his throat. “Cavendor’s ambush is being constructed along the Harad Road north of the Cross-roads near the northern border of Ithilien.” More of the team clustered around, but leery of listening ears, Yanar didn’t raise his voice. “Stay together. Remember what we learned. Glymal, Ciryan, Alhez, and Tahal are in charge. Listen to them.”

Nods all around. 

Yanar exhaled, steadying his nerves. After a short nod to both pale Rizhir and black-haired Kyvin, Yanar strode from the barracks. 

The events in Mordor were no longer his to influence. His mind turned to what was. 

_Time to thwart an ambush._

OoOoOo

__  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth**  


The thunder of too many boots rumbled nearer, punctuated by the dull, rhythmic clang of armor. Saldís’s Akhora-intensified nerves shrilled with a suspense sharp enough to draw blood. _Urkhas kûd._

“Do we hide?”

Oh, how Saldís longed to say aye to Dori’s soft question. 

“They’ve seen us,” Finnin answered lowly. Like herself, he faced forward and kept to a steady jog, not giving in to the temptation to glance behind them at the massive force of orcs rushing their way from the south. “If we go a-hiding, doubtless they’ll wonder why.”

“Face forward,” Nori urged his brother. “And be thankful Thannor and Anuon left us hours ago.”

“You think they missed this?” Dori asked.

“I’m thinking they’ve less need to worry. What orc will know one Black Númenórean from another?” Nori grumbled. His pale eyes slid towards Saldís. “You’d best step to one side. Those orcs are bound to wonder about a lass traveling with three orcs.”

Though she was loath to agree, agree she did. Finnin’s fingers brushed hers, and after an intense meeting of their eyes, she moved to one side of the road and modified her gait to one of impatience and determination. If any asked, she’d spin a tale of an orc—or three, a part of her corrected—who’d dined upon her _emala_ whilst she’d been occupied elsewhere.

The orcs drew nearer. Saldís could feel the ground beneath her boots tremble under the battering of so many shod feet. _Here’s where we discover how great Nori, Dori, and Finnin’s disguises truly are._ If there were wargs with this force…

Saldís’s lips flattened. 

Akhora, vile harpy that she was, cackled, and by _Durin,_ Saldís felt the other female’s fleeting impulse to rip one dwarf’s helmet off and expose all three as counterfeits. 

The fact that a part of her thought it sickened Saldís. By her soul, she hoped that earlier premonition proved true and only one of her disparate selves emerged from Mordor. This harboring of an enemy in her own skin, in her own _mind,_ was nothing she wished to endure for the entirety of her life. 

_My life,_ Akhora countered with simmering threat. _Yours is soon to end._

“Almost on us,” she barely caught Nori murmuring to Dori and Finnin. “Chin up, lads. If we’re found out, it’s bound to be over quick-like.” 

Dori swatted him. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Nori said in return. 

Closer and closer the orcs came, the pounding of their boots growing louder. Occasional shouts and grunts reached Saldís’s ears. The suspense hammered her heart against her breastbone. Saldís’s hands closed about the hilts of her two scimitars. 

The first of the force tromped by. Saldís hugged the very edge of the road. There, her pace slowing, she watched as rank after rank of orcs charged by, pushing and shoving one another. By Durin, there were hundreds upon hundreds of the foul creatures. 

“Move, maggots. To the Black Gates. I said _move,”_ came a voice somewhere in the throng. A handful of furtive scans, and Saldís finally located a black-skinned orc standing a full head taller than the others with a whip in hand. 

Saldís frowned behind her head scarf, her forehead crinkling. Sauron was moving his troops. 

Why? Surely if any kingdom dared assault Mordor’s gates, it would be Gondor…and the Dead City would be the logical site against which to launch the attack given its proximity. If Mordor readied itself to march, the Dead City was again the most logical staging ground due to its position so close to the Cross-roads. What was happening here? 

_Something else is moving,_ she thought. Something she knew nothing about. ‘Twas the only conclusion to draw. 

Such thoughts flew from her head, though, when the orc leader took one look at the three “orcs” standing not far from Saldís’s position. Without pause, he rushed forward and kicked them into motion with the rest of his force. 

“Did I tell you to halt?” the creature growled, and Saldís saw red as his whip came down upon the back of Dori’s armor. “Move!”

She almost hurled herself at the orc as a rage she could not entirely blame Akhora for frothed into existence. He dared to touch _Dori?_

She froze, struggling to contain the fury, and in the end, it cost her dearly. Dori, Nori, and Finnin disappeared, swept away in the orcish tide. 

_Nay._ She stood on tip-toes, frantically searching. Where…?

 _Gone,_ Akhora sang. _All gone._ Then in an ominous rumble, _It’s just us now, you misbegotten daughter of runts._

 _Itkit,_ Saldís tried to snap back, but her voice lacked strength. Mahal. She’d lost them. How could she lose them? 

More and more orc ranks stomped by, and she stood there, immobile. Then her eyes hardened. Aye, she’d lost them, but she knew her dwarves. They’d slip away when they could. For now, their road and hers were the same: north.

Saldís waited only until the last of the orcs passed her before breaking into an easy lope. 

_So,_ she amended a thought from hours earlier. _Retrieve Finnin, Dori and Nori. Rescue Bifur, Bofur and Berenor. Have harder words with my Novices._ She would drag them from this cursed land if she must. _And find some Durin-curse-it way to thwart the Dark Lord._

By Berúthiel’s freakish cats, the list kept growing. 

_Must abolish Akhora, too,_ a part of her helpfully provided, causing her to growl in absolute frustration. When was she supposed to do that? And how?

Perhaps she should amend the list one more time. What was needed first was a hard surface against which to beat her head.

OoOoOo

__  
**Osgiliath, Gondor**  


Aragorn strode down Osgiliath’s rubble-clogged streets with the surviving members of the Gray Company. Time was not a commodity the Host had in spades, but the king could not refuse the request made by the men who would remain behind to defend Osgiliath. They’d asked the Dunedain to compile a list of suggested repairs to shore up the ancient city’s defenses. 

Aragorn could not deny them. Should the Host be overcome and Frodo fail, the men here would make Middle Earth’s next desperate stand. Plans had to be made, for even should the worst occur, Aragorn had to believe hope remained. It must, for without it, the king feared Mordor’s victory was assured.

The damage, Aragorn was dismayed to discover, was both worse than he’d feared and better, for the orcs had begun to rectify matters themselves to defend the city, but an orc’s idea of defense was crude. To defend Osgiliath should the worst occur would require more than brute force. It would need careful planning and brilliant strategies. 

Both of which Aragorn intended to provide before he departed. 

“They should defend the outer walls, most certainly,” Saerdan was saying. “But I would inform the men defending the city to take up position there,” Saerdan said, pointing to the rooftops of intact buildings closer to the city’s heart. “And there.” Another rooftop.

“So deep behind the city’s walls?” Halros asked, his honey-brown eyes narrowed and filled with doubts. “You suggest the first lines of defense be abandoned?”

Saerdan turned to face the rest of his brothers-in-arms. “If a force comes from Mordor, the walls are certain to be overrun. Instead of fighting a losing game, we alter our strategies to make use of it. Lure the enemy inside. Rig the easternmost reaches of Osgiliath. I say we prepare the very buildings to fall upon them.”

It was a bold move. A startling one. By the flat-lipped expressions many of his Rangers adopted, Aragorn knew such blatant destruction displeased many, but none disputed Saerdan’s logic. 

“It will be done as you say,” Aragorn said. “Cities, even ancient treasures such as this, can be rebuilt. Not so lives.” To Saerdan, “Make it so. If there are no masons with the skill to see it done, you may have volunteered yourself to remain behind.”

A minute grimace twisted his lips, but then Saerdan nodded. “So be it.”

It was at that moment that Legolas loped into view, his ground-eating strides not quite a panicked rush but close enough. “Something has transpired,” Aragorn whispered to himself, though based upon Legolas’s expression, it did not spell disaster.

“Aragorn,” the elf prince said as he leaped up a short flight of stairs onto the landing upon which the Dunedain had clustered. 

“Legolas, what news?”

“New arrivals,” Legolas responded swiftly. “One identifying himself as Ranger Orodon. With him, he brings the dwarf Finnur and over a dozen children from Caeldor.”

 _Caeldor._ A spark of hope. At last, word from the south. “Where?” he asked. 

“The eastern gates,” Legolas said. The elf fell in beside him as Aragorn broke into a jog towards the location indicated. “Gimli keeps watch, and the sons of Elrond as well. Prince Imrahil confirms the identity of Orodon and the dwarf.”

_Good._

“I would urge caution,” Golodir said, a hard and wild look upon his face. “Sauron could not ask for a better assassin to strike at you, Aragorn, if he lived another Age.” 

_The children._ No need to question Golodir’s meaning. 

Aragorn eyed the older, grizzled Ranger surreptitiously. Well did the members of the Gray Company know how the loss of Golodir’s daughter during a mission into Angmar had scarred the man. Anger ruled him. 

_Too much anger,_ Aragorn mused, wondering anew if he should leave the Ranger behind. Leading a man driven to the brink of insanity by grief into war was not a kind act, nor an honorable one.

Yet at the same time, the Host would need every fighter it could muster, and Golodir was formidable. Aragorn determined to watch the gray-haired Ranger. If he acted with reason around the children of their enemies, it would be sign enough the man had not entirely lost himself to his rage. 

Reaching the gates took but a minute, and Aragorn inspected each of the new arrivals in turn as Orodon bowed. Beyond the arrivals, large birds congregated around a small fountain, availing themselves of its waters. 

Orodon stepped forward. “My lord. I am relieved to find you well.” His focus slid beyond Aragorn, and Orodon nodded his greeting to his fellow Rangers.

“Well met, my friend,” Aragorn said in return. “Very well met. What news?”

“You were successful?” Halros asked.

Orodon lifted and dropped one hand. “In part.” Orodon sighed. “Only in part.”

Aragorn listened as Orodon apprised them all that had transpired since the Black Company’s departure from Dol Amroth. He told of Princess Dís’s flight to the Orocarni in an attempt to rally aid from that quarter. He told of the host of refugees waiting within Umbar for retrieval by Prince Imrahil’s people. Orodon spoke of the babes, pregnant ladies, and wounded in the Tovennen cliff dwelling of Dol Hamoth.

Silence permeated the stone courtyard as Orodon confessed his Company had been too late to prevent Caeldor from marching. Its leadership was halved and its base of operations destroyed, but the army it had produced remained.

So. The Host would face not only Melkor’s twisted creations and Easterlings, but Black Númenóreans as well. Grave faces turned to Aragorn, and upon many, the candle’s flicker of hope they’d nourished of a fair outcome flickered and died. 

Orodon next spoke of the Novices who had ventured into Mordor to aid Saldís. 

“Into Mordor?” Golodir demanded, his voice a lash. 

_So that’s the way of it._ A sudden revelation, and a welcome one. Aragorn had despaired of finding some way to goad Golodir back to life, to oust him from the recklessness that had claimed him since Angmar. 

Children. Of course with Golodir it would be children. 

Orodon faced the bereaved Ranger squarely. “We could not halt them.” A crooked smile. “Saldís was a bit too successful in teaching them to think for themselves. There was no stopping them. These are no typical children.” Orodon gestured to where the five girl Novices kept watch over their prisoners (and the fact that they had _children_ prisoners disturbed Aragorn greatly). 

Aragorn inspected the girls and conceded Orodon’s point. The five girls, not a one beyond sixteen years of age, kept close watch with hands to their scimitars. Their demeanors were more fitting upon souls with twice their years. 

For all that, he knew from the brief glances in his direction that they listened closely. One whispered words Aragorn did not catch to the other four and trotted over, her hand reluctant to leave her weapon’s hilt, but leave it, it did. Brown of eyes, black of hair and bronzed of skin, she was, and a startling beauty. 

“Ziphora,” Orodon greeted carefully. 

The girl straightened and lifted her chin. Facing Aragorn directly, she said, “I would speak.”

Aragorn’s hand flashed up, halting Halros before the younger Ranger could respond. “I’m listening.” 

Her spine gained another thumb’s width in length. “Ib-Saldís said we could trust you, but trust doesn’t work that way.”

A rumbling among the Gray Company, but again Aragorn’s hand flashed, silencing his kinsmen. “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed somberly.

Ziphora nodded shortly. Then she blurted, “Do you intend to slay us?” Golodir’s choked cry distracted those penetrating brown eyes for a split-second, but they returned to Aragorn just as fast. “We have served Mordor,” the girl said with rigid candor. “Indirectly.”

“That was none of your doing,” Golodir said harshly, his face contorted into lines of anger and grief. “What kind of monsters—?”

He fell silent as Aragorn’s hand came to his shoulder. “Hush, my friend. She speaks but from her experience.” After bestowing a light squeeze upon the older man’s shoulder, Aragorn faced the Novice in question.

A Novice, he realized, who looked upon Golodir with complete bafflement, and Aragorn’s heart pained him to witness it. How dark this child’s life must have been. How shorn of simple things like gentleness and concern. 

By clearing his throat, Aragorn drew her attention. “No. We have no intention of slaying any of you.”

“What about them?” Her chin jerked to indicate the bound and gagged group of nine Novices being watched by the dwarf Finnur and the four other unfettered girl Novices. 

“Nor them,” Aragorn said softly. “We will do all we can to convince them of the error of their ways…” He ignored the way she stiffened and continued, “…but we will not use force. You have my word on that, though I know you have little reason to trust it.”

A nod. A firming of her shoulders. Then the girl said, “The rest of Ib-Saldís’s Novices will do what they can to undermine Mordor.” Her voice blackened. “For what they did to us. For what they still intend to do to us. Poison is the least of what they deserve.” 

The hairs along the king’s nape lifted, and his Rangers adopted uniformly white-lipped expressions at all the girl’s venomous words betrayed. Before Aragorn could react to that appalling statement—children wielding poisons, a part of him grieved—the young lady altered her voice to one more brisk. “We discussed it,” and by her gesture, Aragorn assumed she meant herself and the other four girls. “We know you are marching to Mordor…”

“Why would you think that?” came Eomer’s lazy drawl.

The girl tossed Rohan’s new king a scathing glare. “What other reason would you be provisioned as you are? You would be busier at work if you intended to fortify this wreck to make a stand here.” 

Back to Aragorn, not seeing the way Eomer’s eyebrows flew upwards or his quirk of a grin, she said, “You can’t take them,” she gestured to the prisoners with a jerk of the head, “with you. They’ll stab you in the back in a blink if given the opportunity. That means some of us,” she pointed to herself, “will have to guard them for you.”

Aragorn fought a smile. Her words echoed many of his own thoughts, for who else would guard children with the care that was needed here? Which of the men would dare lift a sword against one if he or she escaped? Granted, Aragorn intended to modify her plans. At least two of his Rangers would also guard these nine Novices. 

He did not trust the Novices not to turn on one another, and all humor bled from him to think it. He would not risk these children’s lives, not even those bound and gagged. “I concur,” he said grimly. 

Ziphora nodded her approval. With her next words, she planted a big smirk on Orodon’s face. “Two of us will stay with you,” she proclaimed. “Since you matter to Ib-Saldís, you go nowhere without us to protect you.”

Aragorn shook his head. Had she just said…?

“Sivva and I will have your back. We’re the best of us five.” A business-like nod. A self-satisfied expression.

Aragorn found himself slack-jawed, and he wasn’t the only one. Children? As body guards? _Children?_

“Good luck,” Orodon murmured. When, Aragorn wondered, had Orodon moved? The younger Ranger folded arms across his chest. “You’re going to need it.”


	56. Trickery

_**Plateau of Gorgoroth  
23 March TA 2019** _

Nori pushed and shoved—aye, well, all the orcs did the same, albeit with less vigor than himself—and made right sure he stayed welded to his brother’s side. Finnin, the ex-thief had lost almost from the onset, and Nori’s temper fired hotter each time he failed to locate the lad. Nori had searched diligently the night through in vain, and fear brushed icy wings along his spine.

 _Urkhas kûd!_ Some protectors the Longbeards had proved to be. They’d gone and gotten themselves stolen from Saldís’s side. They’d left her _alone,_ by Mahal’s lifted hammer. In Mordor!

How were they to help his niece chain that dark side o’ herself if they weren’t with her? Bad enough this mess had ensnared Dori and Nori, but to take Finnin from her as well? 

Nori was not blind. He’d seen the signs of distress cross Saldís’s face. She said not a word, but he was her uncle. He knew that lass, and the pinched look of her eyes spoke volumes. 

_A little help?_ Nori directed to Mahal. For given recent events, it felt the Company had so offended Fate as to become that fickle lassie’s chamber pot of choice. Worse, the riled and ornery miss must have ingested fare that did not agree with her, for she was bent on using said pot with right regularity. 

Dori’s fingers moved. _*Any bright ideas?*_

Nori snorted privately. Ideas, aye, he had those aplenty, but not a one would help them just yet. _*Wait. Watch.*_ A pause. A grim glance sideways where Dori jogged at his side. _*Find Finnin before the lad does anything hasty.*_

Their Maker help them all if that lad’s Firebeard blood chose now to make itself known. Worry for Saldís was sure to be spark aplenty to set it aflame.

OoOoOo

__  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  


Berenor floundered in a sea of agony. How long he’d lain thus, he had no way to gauge. 

Voices pestered him, demanding, angry voices that Berenor no longer permitted himself to hear. Above all, he must not respond to their words. That thought alone ruled his mind, keeping him mute but for when a new agony ripped another hoarse cry from him.

Already, he feared he’d betrayed too much. Not by his words, for despite the way his mind pleaded with him to speak, to _by Eru_ stop the pain, Berenor had not yet uttered more than a handful of curses, and those were early in his captivity. 

Loosening the tongue was folly, for as Berenor discovered, a treacherous and craven thread of self was only too eager to make use of the unbridled appendage, to form words that might see oneself spared no matter the cost. Anything to halt the torment.

It was a horrible and demoralizing discovery, to find he, son of Thannor, harbored a coward in his skin. 

Sour humiliation churned in his soul. Despite his best efforts, he’d revealed too much by his inability to control his body’s reactions. Because of Berenor, the enemy knew without doubt that the Dunedain were at work. They knew Isildur’s heir lived and that many of his Rangers mustered to his side. They knew the Dunedain had infiltrated the Black Númenóreans’ forces, and that Saldís’s was behind many of their troubles. 

_They knew anyway,_ a filament of reason tried to console. Berenor refused its comfort. He’d failed his king, his lineage, and his father. 

His mind turned back to the moment he’d heard his father’s anguished shout. Though blindfolded, he knew Thannor had pursued him to the very gates of Minas Morgul—Berenor had needed no sight to identify the city as he’d been towed across its threshold. The shrieks of wraiths was proof enough of where he’d been taken.

His father would come for him. Berenor held no doubts. But as the torture went on and on, he wondered if Thannor would arrive in time for there to be anything left to save. 

_You will die here,_ a voice seemed to sound in his mind…or did his ears detect the words? _What sense resisting? The world topples into Shadow. Already, Minas Tirith has fallen. The king lies slain._ And Berenor was to blame. 

Berenor sobbed, hating himself for the tears that escaped him in the presence of his enemies. Another burst of excruciating pain, another meaningless trickle of words hissed into his ears. 

Berenor stared unseeing, despair gnawing away at his soul. He hated these people. 

But most of all, he hated himself.

OoOoOo

Novice Mazir ran, his heart a hard lump lodged in his throat that jounced with each step. Curses flooded his mind. He sure hoped either Gylmal, Alhez or Tahal was at the barracks the Novices shared, because Mazir didn’t think his team had time for Mazir to hunt them down. All was about to take a very, very dark turn if the Novices did not avert it fast.

 _Wraiths._ Ar-Cavendor and the Mouth intended to create themselves some wraiths, lesser than the Nazgûl, but dangerous all the same, and they intended to start with the prisoner Mazir had located. If…when…that happened, Cavendor and the former Lord Sangahyando would learn everything the man Berenor knew.

That meant the enemy was about to learn the identities of any Novices the man might have interacted with before his capture, plans Ib-Saldís might have shared with him... There was no telling what all! 

Was this a trap? Mazir had to consider it. Why else permit a Novice to see and hear what Mazir had? _To frighten us into compliance,_ a part of him suggested. _Just in case._

If that was the goal, it was successful. Mazir’s feet wanted to run and run and run and never stop. Bad enough to be played with by some Arcanist or bleed for Cavendor’s pleasure. But to be eaten by Shadow?

Trap or not, it didn’t matter. Act, and _probably_ things turned bad. Fail to act, and it most certainly would. Already, Ar-Cavendor watched the adults for signs of treachery. What if he decided it was safer to take no chances? What if he and the Mouth decided to turn them all into undead creatures? 

A wild and panicked thought: _How many Morgul blades do they have?_

He really wished Yanar was still in Mordor. 

A self-depreciating snort escaped him. Once, Mazir had hated the older Arcanist and feared him. Now, Mazir wanted nothing so much as the Arcanist’s rock-steady presence, and he suspected he wasn’t the only Novice regretting that Yanar had been sent away. 

Or to lament the fact that their Arcanists couldn’t use their sorcery. The Novices could sure use some eyes of their own in this accursed place. 

Mazir skidded around a corner at full tilt…and nearly crashed into Ne-Mahris head-on. _Sauron’s crispy bits!_ That fast, strong fingers clamped around his upper arm like a vise. 

“In a hurry, Novice?” Recognition flared. “You,” the woman crooned eerily. “I remember you.”

She did? The hairs on the nape of his neck lifted, and a spurt of true terror rushed through his veins. Nothing good _ever_ came from being singled out by Mahris. 

_Still better than a Morgul blade,_ a part of him babbled. Mahris at her worst couldn’t compare to that. 

“You’re one of Ib-Akhora’s pets.” Eyes as cold as a snake’s surveyed him. Fingers from her opposite hand trailed down his cheek, the nails grazing skin.

Mazir held himself absolutely still, too terrified to even gulp. There were _stories_ about Mahris. 

“Tell me, Novice. What really happened?”

Mazir’s heart missed one beat. “Ne-Mahris?”

Her hand released his arm, only to latch painfully about Mazir’s chin. Leaning close, she said, “You and I both know if Akhora fought free of your band, there would have been more casualties,” she crooned. “Which means somebody is lying,” she sang sweetly while moving his chin side to side with each syllable. 

Mazir’s heart skipped a second beat, a rabbit hiding from a predator. If Mahris thought someone was lying, why not say so to Ar-Cavendor? Why confront a Novice? Was it possible Mahris was madder than any of them had suspected? 

The thoughts raced through his mind—along with a dozen more—in the time it took Mazir to blink once. He forced himself to speak, concocting his tale as the words emerged. “Ne-Hilliz made us swear, Ne-Mahris.”

Her body went still like a serpent before the strike. “Ne-Hilliz.”

“Yes, Ne-Mahris.”

She seemed to shake herself. “What did he command of you, Novice?”

Mazir’s head tilted back at a painful angle as Mahris straightened with Mazir’s chin still captive in her hand. “He s-said not to tell anyone he let Ib-Akhora go.”

She blinked, her body humming with some inner excitement. That, Mazir thought, couldn’t be good. “He did, did he,” she whispered. “Consorting with the enemy, Hilliz? Naught, naughty.” 

Did she not remember the man was dead? 

Mahris’s attention snapped back to him with sudden and terrifying alertness. “Why the lie?”

“Because we didn’t want to die, too,” Mazir blurted.

That, amazingly enough, seemed to make perfect sense to the insane Weapon. She tittered behind one hand and released Mazir. “Afraid the Nazgûl would have you, too?” 

A short nod. A fidget in place. Mazir hoped he played it right, nervous but not guilty of treason. 

A pat on the head, and she left him. Mazir gaped for one long second, twisting at the waist to watch the Weapon prance away. More chills raced up his spine, for the Weapon almost skipped. 

_Tell the others this, too._ Fast. If Mahris was that mad, they had better all stay out of her path. Far out of her path.

Mazir bolted the rest of the way to the barracks assigned to the Novices. He paused only when he reached fiery-haired Dezzin—the Novice kept watch right inside the doorway. Dezzin lifted a thumb, signaling that only teammates were within. 

Mazir’s next exhale was explosive in his relief. He hurried deeper inside, happy to spy Tahal’s reed-thin form in the back corner. Though the Weapons-Novice was almost bony in appearance with sharp-edged cheeks, a pointed chin, and curly brown hair that served only to emphasize his bone structure—plus a forelock that ever dangled into his eyes—Tahal’s appearance was deceptive. 

“Make a path,” Dezzin shouted behind him, sparing Mazir the need to do so. Teammates scurried out of the way until Mazir stood before Tahal.

“Problem?” The older boy asked.

“Yeah, problem. I found Ranger Berenor, but if we don’t act quick, he’s not gunna be Berenor much longer.”

Tahal jerked upright. Mazir rushed through his tale. When he’d finished, Tahal swore hotly beneath his breath. The Weapons-Novice paced, each step jerky and punctuated by low mutters. 

Then, he halted. “Alright. We free him and find some place to stash him.” A finger pointed. “Voral? You and Thyndo find Gylmal, Ciryan, and Alhez. Tell ‘em what’s happened.”

The two Novices, fourteen and thirteen years old respectively, bolted from the barracks. 

“Lohri,” Tahal called next. The girl with the liver-colored birthmark on her chin stood at attention. “If they’re planning on using a Morgul blade on that Ranger, someone has to fetch it. If it isn’t too late, follow the person sent to get it. I want to know if there is a stash of them, and if so, where they are.”

She sprinted off.

“Bet the Mouth has them,” Mazir murmured.

Tahal’s lips flattened. “So do I.” A hard look, and Tahal strode for the exit. “The rest of you? Take up position near the prisoner, but don’t do _anything_ until I say so.”

OoOoOo

“This is not a good idea.”

Erynor believed his companion. Yahzin understood the enemy in a way Erynor never would. When she said this plan was foolishness, she was likely correct. Still, the only alternative was to permit the Novice to venture on alone, and that Erynor refused to consider for Thannor and Berenor, as well as because it went against every standard of right Erynor held dear. 

“Probably true,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “You can change your mind any time.”

Green eyes glared over at him. “If I turn back, I won’t find Berenor.”

“Not up to you alone,” he countered.

Yahzin growled audibly, and Erynor’s lips quirked despite the circumstances. After a huff, Yahzin snarled, “You are…are… _impossible.”_

His grin widened sufficiently that he knew she detected it behind his face scarf. 

“That wasn’t a compliment,” she snapped.

“You aren’t doing this alone. If you are walking into that city, I’m with you.” Even if he did think it tantamount to suicide. 

_Eru._ Erynor’s pulse thundered in his ears with each step the two of them took towards the Black Númenórean outpost. Tucked away beneath the towering and sinister barricade that had to be the Isenmouthe, the village hugged both the barricade and the road Erynor knew led to Udûn. 

His mouth went dry. Of all the places his life would carry him, he’d never imagined this. Gazing up at the Isenmouthe’s summit and its crown of sharp and jagged spikes, he swallowed back a sudden onslaught of doubts. 

Perhaps tossing Yahzin over his shoulder and carting her away until she came up with a better plan was not such a bad idea after all. True, she’d likely fight him every step of the way, but wasn’t that better than what they were about to attempt? Walking into an enemy stronghold after that enemy had proof—not suspicions, but _proof_ —some foe hid among them had to qualify as the height of folly. Given Ib-Lohrzor’s report to Ar-Cavendor—plus anything Berenor may have let slip—the three remaining Lords and Ar-Cavendor had to be taking precautions.

 _There is a slim chance this will work._ So countered optimism, but Erynor wasn’t so sure optimism was appropriate when one was in Mordor. 

Yes, this plan to walk into the city _might_ work. All hinged on what precautions Ar-Cavendor and the three Lords had taken. 

Orcs and trolls marched down that road cutting the outpost in half, all of them heading towards the Black Gates. Mordor was stirring, and if that was so, what could Cavendor do? Doubtless he had to order his own troops. He would not have time or manpower to keep constant watch on his own people…probably. 

Erynor’s lips pinched together beneath his head scarf as his attention returned to the austere collection of stone and iron-slab covered buildings that was his destination. This was no Caeldor with a measure of grace and dignity to it. It had one purpose, and it showed it: war. 

“How many Black Númenóreans marched here from Caeldor?” Erynor murmured.

“You ask this _now?”_ Yahzin’s forehead furrowed, giving her a pinched look. “Would this not have been more appropriate before the Isenmouthe was in view?”

He halted to glare.

“Don’t stop,” she hissed. “Are you mad?” Smaller hands tugged him into motion. “We’ve already been spotted.” 

What? His eyes flared.

“Five thousand,” she responded, and Erynor’s heart gave a distinct thud at the revelation. Then as if to reassure herself, Yahzin said uncertainly, “Ar-Zirit will know me.” 

“Wonderful. You can walk right in, but Ne-Mahris will know me for who I am,” he said absently. They’d been seen? When? How? And why had the Novice _not informed him_ of the event?

A short look slid his way, then inexplicably softened. “You are no Black Númenórean.”

“No, that is—”

“You were not raised knowing any and every animal was your enemy,” she cut in. “Don’t _look!_ You draw more attention to us. I told you not to come. You should be with your friend—”

“Brother,” he corrected.

“—not here.”

Yes, he should be with his brothers, as in plural. But after discussing the matter, Erynor and Calenor had concluded at least one of them had to focus upon finding someplace in Mordor to hole up. _When_ they freed Berenor—and the dwarves, if they could—they could not simply stroll through the Black Gates or retrace their steps through Minas Morgul. The only sane option was to hide until the enemy thought them gone. Only after would they attempt the Pass of Cirith Ungol. 

Besides, Berenor would need care and healing. After so long in enemy hands… Erynor tried not to think upon what he was likely to find. 

_Wherever you are, Calenor,_ Erynor thought, _be safe and be swift._

“Instructions?” Erynor steeled himself as their steps carried the two of them closer and closer to the first buildings belonging to the outpost. As if on cue, a handful of Black Númenóreans separated themselves from the shadows and took up position in the center of the road.

Waiting for them.

“Yahzin?” he asked a second time, his tone sharper. 

Her forehead adopted lines of worry. “I’m working on it.”

OoOoOo

__  
**Near Harad**  


Dís had never been so exhausted. Nor, she ventured to guess, had Pallando even with his compatriot’s aid, for Alatar had joined them some indeterminable time ago during their mad race across Khand and into Near Harad. Together, the two Blue Wizards with the six-hundred strong army of Blacklocks in their dark and jeweled armor moved with a speed that sent Dís’s belly into queasy convulsions when she dared glance to the side. 

There was naught natural about this journey. Not remotely. _No dwarf,_ she’d long since concluded, _is designed to travel this way._ Only dire need compelled the dwarves to endure it with tight-lipped silence.

Further aiding the wizards’ efforts to speed the lot of them along, Dís, Dár, and Pallando had exchanged their swift but landlocked _emala_ at King Vestin’s urging for the Blacklocks’ famed _gorrah._

At Dís’s obvious skepticism upon first sight of a _gorrah,_ the young king had grinned. “If you’re not won over within an hour, you can return to your running supper.” 

Then he’d challenged, “Tie it to a tether and bring it along. I promise you, you’ll be loosing the thing before we leave these mountains.”

“Or be dining on it,” his friend and guard, Hethin, had added. 

Dár and Dís had exchanged significant glances and gave the _gorrah_ a second looking-over. Oh, the lizards appeared impressive, she granted them that. With withers some five feet from the ground, sleek bodies in shades of shimmery reds, golds, and umbers—a few a mixing of all three—that extended ten to twelve feet from tip of their noses to the ends of their tails, the animals were all muscle, tough hides, and sharp teeth. 

But speed was of paramount importance. Dís could not see how these animals could best the _emala_ for that. 

She’d been wrong, for not only were _gorrah_ able to sustain speeds equal to the Númenóreans’ tall birds, the _gorrah_ had the added advantage of intelligence…and a set of claws on all four legs that let them scramble up and down sheer mountainsides as if on flat land. All a rider need do was cling to the saddle (roundly cursing her Maker all the while from her precarious perch) and hope the _gorrah_ did not slip.

As Hethin had promised, Dís and Dár had abandoned their _emala_ with alacrity. 

Ahead, Dís eyed the growing, jagged mountains that were Mordor’s southern border. What had transpired, the Blue Wizards were not saying, but the end result was thus: while Dowager Queen Sissal led a force of warrior dams and grizzled veterans to Dol Hamoth and the vulnerable souls there, the wizards led an army of dwarves—including Dís and Dár—not to Minas Tirith in search of the Gray Company or word of Aragorn, but to the Dark Lord’s very doorstep. 

Aye, the Blue Wizards’ resonated with urgency, and that sour stench had spread among them all. Dís was not immune. Nay, she could only conclude the wizards had access to knowledge they didn’t deign to share, or mayhap time did not permit them to waste even the handful of minutes such an explanation would require. 

It was not a reassuring thought. 

_Mordor._ By Mahal, if Dwalin had harbored even an inkling Dís’s path would bring her here, he’d never had let her depart from Thorin’s Hall. Her lips curved. Not without him, at any rate, and not without emptying Thorin’s Hall of its warriors. 

The bigger the Mountains of Shadow loomed, the more the princess sensed that some big thing was going to happen. She could taste it in the air, smell it in the wind. Aye, the world held its breath, awaiting the outcome of the event it anticipated. 

_If it is Sauron,_ she found herself praying often, _let us arrive in time to make a difference._ Her brother’s sword had vengeance to exact on its predecessor’s behalf, and by Mahal, Dís would do the exacting. _Not only for Thorin. For Kíli and Fíli, too._ When she was reunited with her family, be it far in the distance or at the end of this journey, she intended to have a tale to tell them. 

With dry, gritty eyes, she examined the sky. _It’s nearer now._ The dwarves had all commented about it, the black mass of clouds that didn’t move no matter the wind’s patterns. Sauron’s work, Alatar had told them. It protected all of Mordor from the sun’s rays by day and even the stars by night. 

Aye, that dark cloud neared, and with it…Mordor. 

For a moment, she felt a new kinship with her brothers. Just as they had before her, Dís rode to war.

_May I do my lineage proud._

OoOoOo

__  
**Ithilien, Gondor**  


The Host passed the Cross-roads by mid-morning and marched north upon the Harad Road with renewed urgency. To their right, foreboding mountains watched—Mordor’s western boundary. Doubtless, the Dark Lord had many eyes watching the Host’s progress.

Mordor had to be emptied. The knowledge repeated itself through Aragorn’s mind. Frodo and Sam’s task was impossible enough with orcs and wargs prowling through those lands; how much worse with sorcerers abounding, too?

_Valar be with you, my friends._

Aragorn’s gaze slid to one side. Ziphora rode behind him at her insistence. While every fiber of him objected to the idea of bringing two so young into battle, he could not afford to risk them chasing after him on their own. Better they were where he and his allies could keep watch over them than the alternative. 

Sivva sat behind Golodir to Aragorn’s left, a blowpipe in one hand and a eyes perpetually in motion. It was a risk, putting the girls behind the two of them, but trust had to begin somewhere. 

A flicker of movement. Before any others responded, Legolas and Sivva acted. Arrow and dart slammed into a bird lurking in a tree beside the road. The animal fell to the ground, dead.

Golodir shot Aragorn a sharp look, one both impressed and tinted with disbelief. Aragorn dipped his head in silent agreement. The sylph of a girl had spotted a threat and removed it as fast as Legolas. It was a lesson he would not soon forget. 

Tension stole over the entire Host. Behind him, Aragorn could feel the way Ziphora’s frame had stiffened, and Sivva too sat her mount with increased rigidity, her eyes wide and alert above her head scarf. 

Aragorn swallowed back his frustration. 

It was hoped that by wearing their head scarves, the enemy might mistake the girls for more Rangers intending to infiltrate Black Númenórean ranks. A flimsy hope, but it was all they had other than removing any possible animal spies from their path. 

The Host marched on.

OoOoOo

__  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor**  


_More orcs._

Aye, it figured. Finnin growled silently as a second and larger force of orcs merged with the army he’d not yet managed to escape. 

More obstacles. More delays, and he was well tired of it. His Saldís needed him, by Durin. With every minute he was detained, his temper turned all the more lethal, for sure as a dwarf loved his beard, that Akhora would be taking advantage of his absence.

 _You’ll not have her,_ he rumbled within the confines of his own mind. _Not while I’ve life in me._

The two orc armies bellowed and shoved at one another like rivals, and the steady jog Finnin’s group had been compelled to maintain flagged. Finnin slowed to a walk and endeavored to catch his breath. His eyes traveled along the westward road from which the new arrivals had come. 

_Mahal._ Was this the road to Durthang? Finnin was no scholar, but even he had heard of the long-abandoned Gondorian fortress. Aye, once it had been fortified and staffed to keep watch over Mordor, a charge the Gondorians had failed to keep, much, he was sure, to their current regret. 

_We’re nearing the Isenmouthe._ They must be, for that fortress had been positioned high in the mountains above Udun and overlooked the Isenmouthe and Morannon. 

Awareness of his location burned like coals in his belly. _Too far._ How much distance now lay between Finnin and his Saldís? Aye, she’d pursue them, but he knew well how exhausted she’d been even before they’d been separated.

Enough was enough. With the orcs snarling insults and bristling at one another, the time was ripe to make his escape. His patience was at an end. Finnin cracked his knuckles. He would enjoy this.

Without permitting himself to consider how this could go foul, Finnin hauled back and punched the nearest orc with all his strength. The snapping of bone was music to the warrior’s ears. The orc went down, others twisted about in search of the source of the disturbance, and Finnin growled and gestured the blame at another orc. 

_Too easy._ The innocent orc he’d indicated was attacked, the orcs standing beside it in formation defended it, and all descended into chaos in less time than it would take to guzzle a flagon of ale. 

As the brawl grew, snaring itself more participants, Finnin crept away.

So absolute was his focus on heading south in search of his Saldís, he never saw the two disguised hobbits drop to hands and knees and flee the scene as he had.

OoOoOo

Saldís woke abruptly, Adâd’s name on her lips. With each choppy inhale, horrific images of Bifur murdered slowly released her from their talons. Reality replaced nightmares.

 _Not real. Mahal._ She scrubbed at her face, disturbing her face scarf. Akhora’s derisive cackles, she attempted to ignore. 

Aye, a dream, but one grounded in too much reality. What she’d witnessed during her short sleep was all too possible.

A quick scan assured her she remained undiscovered. Only the moaning wind kept her company, carrying with it renewed bursts of Mordor’s pungent and stinging air. 

Growling, she rolled out of the depression she’d dug partially beneath a knee-high slab of rock. The wasted time infuriated her, especially with dream images haunting her, but she’d had no choice, curse Kimilzor to the deepest reaches of the Pit. Fatigue had dulled her senses until continuing on became too risky. Though every instinct had shrieked she could not afford the time, it became clear she could not afford _not_ to rest, either. 

Four hours was all she’d intended to permit herself, and she trusted her training remained true. Four hours was all she had slept. ‘Twas an early skill Novices learned, that, to wake as intended, and she’d drawn on the ability even while knowing Akhora likely to try to edge closer to the surface if that other half of her remained conscious when her Saldís-self nodded off. Truthfully, Saldís had no inkling of such was possible, but her nerves bled paranoia beyond her control. 

_Better paranoia than underestimating **her.**_

After securing her scarf to hide her features, she returned to the road. 

Only to stop. Pin prickles pebbled her arms. _Valkthor._ The fool jogged to her, a cocky grin on his face and scimitar in his hand. 

Fury burst forth. _He_ was the one who’d dared to steal both Adâd and Uncle Bofur. By _Durin,_ the wretch would die.

OoOoOo

__  
**Ost Egla, outskirts of the Isenmouthe, Mordor**  


A sudden cackle from the Mouth sent shudders down Bifur’s spine. Mahal, but the creature’s soul was as foul as its appearance. That Bifur’s daughter had survived Kimilzor with a shred of sanity was naught but a miracle.

Squatting before Bifur, the Mouth crooned, “Oh, how delightful. How fiendishly clever. I may have to rethink my assessment of Valkthor’s intelligence.” Bifur sensed rather than saw when the Mouth left off bleeding him, capping the vial the Mouth had used to capture Bifur’s blood. 

Bifur strove mightily not to heed any of the Mouth’s words. They were poison—aye, he knew that from experience—and Bifur had learned well how they infiltrated the heart itself to inflict their torment. 

Instead, he denied the syllables meaning. Bifur slumped in the chains lashing him to the wall behind him, closed his eyes, and filled his mind with thoughts of home, for ‘twas those thoughts that bolstered him. 

Aye, they fueled his determination. Though there seemed no hope for himself and his cousin, Bifur refused to relinquish it. This cretin had damaged Bifur’s daughter, tortured Bofur, and Bifur was not forgetting any of it. Recompense was due, and by Mahal if Bifur held on long enough, at some point he’d have opportunity to dish it out.

“Shall I tell you what occurs?” the creature queried in its awful voice. Its grotesque teeth chattered thrice as if to punctuate its words. 

Bifur didn’t respond. He’d been burned, deprived of air, drowned, and bled until there was little strength left to his poor flesh, but he’d not give the creature the satisfaction of goading him. 

“She’s here,” the mouth continued in that same, hateful tone o’ voice. 

Bifur’s eyes snapped open, gaze locking on the stone floor beneath his feet. His heart near failed him.

_Nay._

The Mouth chortled. “Not happy to hear that, are you?” One metal-gloved hand patted Bifur atop his head. “How your mind works, seeking a different interpretation for my words.” 

Bifur’s head slowly lifted, his glare pure acid. 

The toothy smile grew. “Akhora comes for you, dwarf. Shall I tell you what her brother has concocted to repay her for her perfidy?”

Saldís. _Nay, Gêdul._ Surely she’d not… 

The denial hit a wall of mithril. Aye, she would. Bifur knew his lass. There was no power that could prevent her from pursuing Bifur, and well he knew it. The trap had been baited, and his daughter had walked into it. Willingly, no doubt. 

His eyes flicked sideways to Bofur, but his cousin hung unconscious within his shackles. By Durin, he needed Bofur to tell him the Mouth’s words were not true. Bifur could not bring himself to disbelieve, and terror stole over him.

The Mouth read it upon his face. Laughing lowly, the Mouth stood. “Would it ease your mind to hear she did not come alone?” A sad shake of the head. “No?” 

_“Lu akraditu,”_ Bifur spat, unable to halt the words. (I don’t believe it.) Nori and Finnin would not permit Bifur’s daughter to venture here.

The Mouth clucked its tongue. “How foolish of the dwarf to remove his helmet to drink.” A sly look. “Our lands are hot,” it said with false commiseration. “They are.”

Then tapping fingertips before his chest, the Mouth said, “He is of blond hair, our intruder, and disguised as an orc.” A smirk. “He does not know Valkthor’s animal spies found him while searching for the dwarf army my daughter brought with her.”

 _His_ daughter? Bifur glared all the harder. On its heels, _Dwarf army?_ What in Durin’s name was it talking about? 

As if driven to gloat about his brilliance, the Mouth shared, “Valkthor does not realize what I’ve done. The rash Arcanist cannot be trusted.” His teeth flashed. “A simple spell, and now I see all he sees. I hear his every thought.” A second sly look. “Shall I tell you what he’s set in motion?”

Now Bifur feared for Finnin as well, for there was no doubt in Bifur’s mind that it was the warrior the Mouth spoke of. 

“She thinks the dwarf is Valkthor,” the Mouth cackled. “Blinded by Valkthor’s sorceries, she is responding with satisfying fury. Who do you think will win, dwarf? Akhora? Or the dwarf who has no idea she believes he is her most bitter enemy?” 

Bifur’s jaw unhinged. _Mahal._


	57. The Bonds That Matter

_**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor** _

Finnin ducked a swipe from Saldís’s right hand scimitar. His ax slammed her left blade away nary a moment too soon.

_Mahal._ That slice would have opened his neck. 

How did the lass do it? Without once glancing down to inspect his armor, her blade yet harassed its every weak point. Truly, his Saldís had a gift, one he’d have appreciated more had their circumstances not been what they were. 

“You don’t want to be doing this, Saldís. I know you don’t,” he panted, intent and hoping against hope to reach his lassie. 

No response. There was nothing upon her beloved face but the intent to eviscerate her foe. 

Her blades flew in unison, spiraling from different directions. Finnin twisted so that one clanged against his chest piece. The other he parried, forcing it to slide beyond him.

_Akhora,_ his soul spat. By Mahal’s lifted hammer, if there was any way to face that one without harming his Saldís, he would happily destroy Akhora in an instant. 

But there wasn’t. Harm Akhora, and he harmed his love, and frustration roiled through him that it was so.

_Nay, my Saldís. Fight her._

“I know you’re in there, _Bâhzundushuh,”_ he whispered loudly enough to reach her ears. His ax arced, slamming her left scimitar ground-ward. A jump carried him over the second. “Don’t you be listening to anything she says. You can defeat her.”

There was not so much as a flicker to tell him Saldís struggled for supremacy. What, by Durin, had happened?

_It little matters. It’s done. Figure out how to undo it._

And quickly, for Saldís was a deadly foe, and where he took all care not to harm his lass, she was not equally constrained. Nay, she sought his life, and a cold knot in his gut said she might very well succeed. 

Should that happen, what would it do to Saldís?

He shuddered to imagine it. Impossible as it seemed, he must survive this, for slaying him—or any of her loved ones—would destroy his Dushin-Mizim. That, he couldn’t permit to happen. He’d happily lay down his life if it would spare her pain, but this would cause the opposite. 

“Try, _Bâhzundushuh,”_ he urged. Finnin grunted as one of her blades jabbed between slats of his armor’s shoulder joint and struck flesh. The resulting blaze of pain spread down the entire length of his arm, and Finnin grimaced. That would cost him. Decades of discipline alone kept him from faltering, but how long before the limb weakened? 

Another series of blows followed, each exchange punctuated by Finnin and Akhora’s labored breathing and the metallic ring of colliding weapons and armor. 

Saldís feinted. 

Finnin’s eyes flared. This trick, he knew. Without hesitation, he countered it, blocking the blade’s attempt to catch him unawares. Finnin locked his ax around her weapon and ripped it from her grasp. The scimitar spun out of reach. 

Saldís snarled, truly snarled…and so low that Finnin almost failed to notice it, a man laughed. The hairs upon Finnin’s nape rose to attention. He risked a swift glance around them, but there was no one there. 

Finnin knew what he’d heard. _We’re not alone._ He’d bet his ax on it. 

Saldís attempted to reclaim her lost blade, but Finnin refused her passage. Above all, he must keep her at as much of a disadvantage as he could. His lass was dangerous enough with one blade. She was not needing two.

On and on the fight continued, both combatants dripping sweat. Though it hurt Finnin’s heart, he was forced to use more damaging tactics to thwart Akhora. He rammed his haft into her gut—not with sufficient strength to cause serious injury, he begged Mahal—and his ax opened the flesh on her upper arm. A relatively shallow slice, it was, but it should not have been necessary.

What in Mahal’s name was happening? Why was there no sign of his Saldís rising to the surface as he knew she would to defend him if there was aught left of her?

_She cannot be gone. It is not possible._ So his soul insisted in an attempt to deny the monstrous fear beginning to claim him. Finnin had never been one to panic, but it near ruled him now. She could not be gone. Akhora could not have stamped her out…could she?

More soul-wrenching minutes passed, too many of them. Saldís gained the upper hand, then Finnin. Back and forth they battled until it seemed their fight would never end. Each of them was skilled—mayhap too skilled, a part of him suggested grimly—and each knew how the other fought…

…or should have. Finnin frowned. Had Akhora lost memory of their spars with Saldís’s disappearance? The Weapon seemed startled at some of his tricks, and that made no sense. Thoughts of the unseen watcher slipped from his mind—it took every scrap of his focus to prevent Akhora from landing lethal hits. 

That is, until a stroke of luck provided him the opening he needed. Finnin’s foot looped around his Saldís’s ankle just as she attempted to block his ax—she would succeed, he was sure—and his uninjured shoulder slammed into her. Again came that male laugh as Finnin followed Saldís to the ground. He heaved his ax from him with sufficient force to send it and Saldís’s last scimitar flying out of reach.

Every muscle in him tensed to know he left himself vulnerable to the watcher, but he’d no choice. Pinning Saldís to the ground, he murmured, “Now would be a good time to return, Saldís.”

It was then that he saw it. Finnin inhaled in a hiss and bent down for a closer look. _By Durin._ An icy worm of horror slithered down his spine. _What is this?_

So subtle that he’d not noticed it in Mordor’s gloom, something floated over each of his Saldís’s eyes. Insubstantial as mist, the black disks were, but as close as he was, there was no missing them. An eerie sensation crawled over his skin like insect legs. 

_Arcanist._ The realization gonged through his mind. A hidden observer. Some _thing_ tampering with his bonny Dushin-Mizim. Aye, this was an Arcanist’s doing.

_You fool,_ he castigated himself. He should never have dismissed that laughter. 

His love’s gray eyes stared up at him without recognition. “Die, Valkthor,” she cooed.

A widening of the eyes. A horrible awareness of what game had been played.

Then a punch of pain folded Finnin in twain as his love gutted him.

OoOoOo

Valkthor laughed silently as Akhora shoved the dwarf off of her. Oh, this was excellent, almost as enjoyable as watching Akhora bleed after Ar-Tagan had last played with her.

The dwarf was priceless. What the runt had believed was happening, Valkthor didn’t know, but the bearded aberration had coaxed and pleaded so _touchingly._ Valkthor had savored the short male’s confusion and distress even as he’d ensured Akhora didn’t hear a word the dwarf said. No, it was Valkthor’s insults that reached her, provoking her anger ever higher so she never noticed incongruities. 

_You dwarves should not have crossed me in Umbar,_ he’d thought at her victim. _You should have stayed safe in your mountains._ Of one thing Valkthor hadn’t doubted: Akhora would kill the fool. 

Valkthor wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. He’d been more correct than he’d anticipated. Akhora _had_ killed the dwarf. What made it even better was that the dwarf had let her. 

This bit of vengeance? It was unfolding better than Valkthor could have dreamed. He could barely contain himself, such was his excitement to watch Akhora’s response as Valkthor played his next card. Had he plotted for decades, he couldn’t have concocted a sweeter revenge for all she and her allies had done. If she cared so for the miserable cave rats, how would the great Akhora handle knowing she’d murdered one?

Another silent laugh shook his frame. With a negligent flip of the thumb, he uncapped a third vial of blood, one of over a dozen he’d confiscated from Novices before departing the Isenmouthe, and tossed it back, swallowing and savoring the new strength it bestowed. If it took every vial, Valkthor counted this game worth it. 

Once again fortified, his magics humming with strength, Valkthor deemed it time to move on to the second leg of his plan. He began the gesture that would remove the filter obscuring Akhora’s eyes and ears.

A pause. Valkthor’s eyebrows flew upwards to see the runt gasping for breath. 

It lived? That wouldn’t do. 

He almost stole the breath from the bearded male, but a new idea sparked. Why give the runt a quick death? 

_Leave him. Let him bleed out knowing it was Akhora who killed him._

A second thought, one that sent a rush of primal heat through him. Oh, this was even better. Why not make the dwarf watch as Valkthor toyed with his _dear_ sister. Images raced through his mind of himself breaking and demeaning her before the helpless and anguished dwarf. 

It was too tempting to resist. Valkthor removed Akhora’s blinders with glee, restoring her sight to normal.

Akhora went absolutely still the instant the bloody and wheezing dwarf was revealed. 

Valkthor grinned evilly, delaying until the time was ripe for his next trick and savoring her panic. Sauron’s crispy bits, she fawned over the dwarf. She _pleaded_ with him! 

_How very touching,_ he snickered. _Why, are they lovers?_ His grin widened. Better and better! 

It was as she fumbled for bandages that he deemed the moment ripe. Valkthor create a new illusion to inflict on his victims. 

Akhora’s horrified and heartbroken, “Nay!” was all he could have hoped.

OoOoOo

Saldís panted, teeth gritted against the pain in her belly—her other injuries were paltry in comparison—as she dragged herself free of Valkthor’s body. ‘Twas tempting to spit, but the _muzm_ wasn’t worth the precious saliva it would cost. In Mordor, one did not waste a drop of fluid. Already, her water pouches were depleting faster than she liked.

 _Warg dung._ The fight had been brutal. Valkthor had demonstrated a skill with a blade that she hadn’t known he possessed, and the strength of his strikes had been abnormally powerful. How had that been possible? 

She shook her head. Had he used his sorcery to augment his physical attacks? Was that why the fool had never unleashed his magics upon her directly? 

Why would he use such a tactic? It boggled the mind. 

_Who cares,_ Akhora said in her silky voice. _He’s dead._

Akhora had a point.

Movement. A tickle of fluctuating color and shape teased the corner of her left eye. Saldís stiffened, and her grasp on her blood-coated dirk tightened. If Valkthor wasn’t dead yet, by Durin she’d rectify the oversight. 

She whipped around to strike…and everything stopped. Heart, lungs, frame, they all froze, and she stared, mind slow to understand the horror splayed before her. 

This… This was not possible. It wasn’t. This was some trick, some nightmare fooling her eyes.

But as he struggled for breath, his Tane blue eyes full of shared anguish and warning through the holes in his orc helmet, her disbelief was devoured by a horror the likes of which she’d never imagined. The dirk dropped from lifeless fingers.

“Finnin?” Her lips formed the syllables, but not a sound emerged. _Nay. It’s not possible._

His fingers moved. _*Bâhzundushuh.*_

A wounded sound escaped her. The unnatural strength. The tricks “Valkthor” had known… A frantic scan located Finnin’s ax yards away. Not a scimitar, but an _ax._

Her head whipped back around. Eyes raced over her dwarf’s body, noting the orc’s armor and the bloody gash she opened upon his lower belly right where the chest plate ended. 

The scar. By Mahal, _she_ had caused it. That meant he’d live…didn’t it? ‘Twas a hope born of desperation. 

Akhora railed in the recesses of her mind, urgently demanding Saldís’s attention, but her words were drowned out by the fear thundering through Saldís’s heart and mind. The harpy could wait.

With fumbling hands, she wrenched the helmet from Finnin’s head. “Please,” she begged any who would heed her. “Not this.” 

Mad. She was truly mad. How could she make such a mistake?

She pressed one shaking hand to his cheek. “I didn’t know it was you,” she managed, a high-pitched, fearful note underscoring her words. “You have to believe me, Finnin. I’d _never_ …” The cries collecting in her throat clogged her windpipe, robbing her of voice. 

Her dwarf’s head tilted, and his lips pressed a kiss to her palm. Their eyes met, a sharing of souls. 

Idiot! What was she doing? Falling apart while he bled to death?

With ears attuned to his every ragged and pained inhale—they were music, they were, for they assured her he _lived,_ by Mahal—Saldís tore at her hip pouch for bandages. Where…? In fury, she upended the thing, spilling its contents across her thigh and onto the parched ground. 

Spying the thrice cursed things, she scooped them up…only to drop them as the music stopped. Her head whipped up. Tane blue eyes turned glassy, and Finnin’s jaw went slack. A body that had been strong and warm with life but hours before…stilled. 

Terror. Her soul radiated with it. “Nay.” She scrambled nearer, eyes wide and hands to his face. Shock and terror gave way to a pain deep enough to rend her in twain. “Finnin… Nay!”

It couldn’t be. He’d lived. In the dream, he’d _lived!_

She tore at his armor, fingers wrenching at the straps until the contraption fell free. She hurled it aside, a sob ripping free at all the blood she saw splashed across his torso, blood that now painted her hands crimson.

Palms pressed over his heart. “No.” Her ear followed, frantic to hear the slightest thump. The memory of the vision, of her abed with his warm chest beneath her head, returned. Listen though she did, ears straining, the reassuring beat never came. Ice crawled and crackled over the surface of her heart.

But then, hope. Her breath hitched. Had his arm twitched? Saldís jerked upright only to moan. Her senses had deceived her again. 

_I am mad._

The eyes that had so often offered her steady assurance remained empty. Lips that had smiled at her, slack. 

She had lost her Finnin. Nay, not _lost._ She had _murdered_ him. In her insanity, she’d struck down the dwarf who held her heart. 

If she could turn on Finnin, who else was at risk? Cold chills pebbled her skin. 

Her gaze dropped to her bloody palms. How much more innocent blood would these hands carry, a part of her wondered numbly. Tears leaked down her cheeks. One of the two suns that had warmed her cold soul had gone out—by _her_ hand—and she could not begin to cope with it. 

It was then, as Saldís longed to curl up against her love’s body and cry her grief against a chest that would never again shelter her, that Akhora finally burst through the wall of numbness claiming her. _It’s an Arcanist’s work, you runt-loving fool,_ she spat, frothing with incandescent fury. _Move! Curse you, snap out of it and MOVE!_

Move?

‘Twas Akhora who felt a sudden surge in peril, and Akhora who forced Saldís to scramble for her nearest scimitar, thereby saving their lives as a curved blade whistled where her head had been but a blink before. 

Valkthor stepped into view. Valkthor, chuckling as he calmly pursued her. A small fireball slammed into the ground to her right, kicking up dirt mere inches from her fingertips. 

Decades of training took over. Saldís rolled in anticipation of more volleys. 

A trick, Saldís realized. The _ugrad_ had tricked her into…into… 

Saldís snatched up her sword and stumbled to her feet, anguish robbing her of coordination. By Mahal, what had she done? What had she _done?_ A sob escaped her, so intense it folded her in two. Saldís trembled as guilt and devastation rampaged through her soul, shredding all in its path. 

Finnin.

_Fool! Let me!_ Akhora fought for control. _Your pathetic sentiments will get us killed! Is that what you want? To lay down and let the dwarf’s murderer go free?_

“Poor Akhora,” Valkthor said and clucked his tongue. “Oops. You must fear me greatly to be mistaking even dwarves for me.”

Every inch of Saldís went still. Slowly, her head craned towards him. Inside, the raging giant of hatred from a lifetime of abuse pounded for freedom, the door containing it groaning and bulging dangerously. _Vengeance,_ it rumbled. 

Valkthor had dragged Adâd to Mordor. He’d tricked Saldís into slaying—her soul bled to think the words—her love. He’d twisted her into his weapon, and she’d never forgive it…or herself. Never.

Nay, Akhora had the right of it. Finnin’s killer would not leave here alive. Upon her soul, she vowed it. This day, this hour, Valkthor’s life would come to an end. 

_Yes,_ Akhora agreed, her voice suddenly both louder and clearer within Saldís’s mind. _We do this together._

_Yes._ For once, her disparate halves were in accord. Saldís’s hand adjusted its grip on the scimitar _Ugmil’adad_ had forged for her. 

Valkthor negligently kicked Finnin’s leg. “I can’t believe it. The great Akhora, undone by female sentiment. You really cared for this runt,” he ridiculed. “You let it _touch_ you.”

As if she’d degraded herself. 

The door groaned louder, and the wood containing a life’s worth of pain cracked and snapped as fibers splintered. What lay behind it, Saldís desperately wished not to know, but by Durin, the anger on this side sizzled through her blood like fire. 

“Cared for?” With chin low, Saldís prowled towards her enemy. “No, I wouldn’t label it that. Love,” she corrected. “Something you,” she inserted with scathing pity, “will never know anything about. Finnin is worth a hundred of me…or you. Aye, I loved him. With every fiber of my being.” 

Her lips lifted in a smile that was pure Akhora. “You should not have used him,” she gently rebuked. “With his death, you’ve ensured your own.” 

A flick of the wrist, and a dagger flew at the warg dung’s throat. 

Valkthor thrust out one palm, and air blasted the blade, shooting it away.

Saldís charged.

OoOoOo

_  
**Ost Egla, Mordor**  
_

Bifur surged against his chains, throwing himself against them time and again. All his might was brought to bear against the rings locking him to the wall. Every muscle strained, bulging as he then grasped the chains and pulled. 

He cared not that he ripped the skin around his wrists or reopened wounds dealt by the Mouth. He cared not for Bofur’s demands for explanation. He had to win free. He had to reach his Saldís before she destroyed herself. 

“Bifur!” Bofur hissed. 

Bifur ignored his cousin, tears streaming down his cheeks. The Mouth had lingered long enough to torture Bifur with details of what occurred south of them upon the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Aye, the creature had mocked Finnin’s entreaties and delighted in the painful game Valkthor played. All the while, the Mouth had gloated over Bifur’s anguish upon hearing the tale. 

Only after informing Bifur that Finnin was no more had the monster departed, and that despite the insults and threats Bifur spat at the Mouth’s back. 

All for naught. Soon, Black Númenóreans would race south, and Bifur’s daughter would be captured. Would she be forced to endure more games such as Valkthor played, only this time featuring himself and Bofur? 

_Nay, Mahal. She cannot survive it._

The Mouth intended that Saldís be retrieved before Valkthor could slay her, but Bifur had no doubts but that it was the opposite that would be happening. His daughter would slaughter her half-brother if given but half a chance. Like as not, she’d butcher the body until naught was left. Bifur well remembered the destruction of her bedroom. 

After, guilt would have its way with her. And there, his heart knew, lay a danger more perilous than capture. Her first true friend outside of family, murdered by her hand? 

Bifur fought his shackles with all his being. He fought and fought and fought until despair slowly swallowed him.

His knees gave out. Bifur collapsed against the wall. Through hoarse cries, he gave voice to the agonizing grief tearing him to pieces.

His wee Gêdul. His precious daughter. She’d survived so much, but this? This he feared would destroy her. 

Bifur’s fist pounded the wall, and his forehead rested against the cold stone. He should never have let her set foot outside Thorin’s Hall.

OoOoOo

When her ears detected footsteps behind her, Yahzin stiffened. A sharp glance over one shoulder revealed the worst—the Mouth gained on them wearing armor so black it seemed to absorb every scrap of light.

Oh. No.

Yahzin yanked Erynor to the side of the road, desperately hoping the sinister figure would pass them by, that the Mouth would interpret her actions as a sign of deference. If not, she thought grimly, she and Erynor were dead.

Her grip on Erynor tightened sufficiently to cut off circulation to his wrist. The warning was likely redundant—the reek of malice in the air intensified with each step nearer the Mouth took—but she found herself taking comfort in the small contact. No matter what, this once she had someone at her side that she trusted. 

By no more than a twitch of one eye did Erynor betray his shock as the Mouth came into his line of vision. The Ranger followed her lead and stood at attention.

_Do nothing,_ Yahzin silently willed him. 

The Mouth drew nearer. Nearer. 

Yahzin’s heart boomed loud in her ears. Fear stripped her mouth of all moisture. 

The Mouth’s footsteps crunched closer, each deafening to her ears. _By the Eye._ Only the Dark Lord’s burning gaze could be worse. She flattened her lips to hide their trembling. 

His approach felt an eternity, yet in two blinks it was over. The Mouth stalked past her position. He never glanced at Yahzin or Erynor, nor did he in any way acknowledge their presence. 

Yahzin swayed, only then realizing how tense she’d grown as her muscles melted in relief. _Orc spit._ Her hand shook as it sought the comfort of her scimitar’s hilt. 

Her mind raced, suddenly recognizing the golden opportunity she’d been handed. A swift glance confirmed it: those standing watch within the street had backed away from the Mouth, too. Not one watched Yahzin and her companion; no, they kept their focus glued on the larger threat—the one none with a speck of intelligence would ignore.

There’d be no better chance. A tug on Erynor’s sleeve, and she boldly walked in the Mouth’s wake…from a safe distance. 

“Yahzin?” Erynor whispered.

“Trust me,” she hissed back. “It’ll work. Look at the others.” Every Black Númenórean in sight fixated upon the Mouth like a herd of gazelle when a lion entered their midst. 

The instant the Mouth was among the sentries, she pulled Erynor into a silent jog. They disappeared among the Black Númenórean crowd gathering along the street’s edges a heartbeat later. 

No alarm sounded. No rough, angry hands grabbed them and demanded answers. They’d done it. They had infiltrated the Isenmouthe. 

Erynor’s eyes met hers, and in them she read a matching sense of victory. They were close now. So close.

Yazin’s chin lifted. Her shoulders drew back. _Time to find Thannor’s s—_ No. She corrected herself. _Time to find **my** brother._

OoOoOo

_  
**The Morgai, Mordor**  
_

Doubts pursued Calenor like a pack of bloodhounds, each one of them nipping and yapping until he snarled with frustration. Every instinct condemned him for leaving Erynor to rescue Berenor alone. Alright yes, Erynor had Yahzin with him, but it still felt a betrayal.

Erynor was not wrong. Should Erynor and Yahzin succeed in sneaking Berenor away beneath the Black Númenóreans’ noses, they’d need a place to hide. One sheltered from Arcanist pet eyes. One the enemy would never dream an escaped prisoner would consider. 

So said logic, but Calenor was finding logic a cold bedfellow. If either of his brothers needed him and he was not there…

A sudden rumble. Ahead of him, orcs appeared. 

_More?_ Cursing under his breath, Calenor dropped and squeezed himself tight against the wall of the Morgai. He tugged his worn cloak over him, leaving space along its hem and the ground through which to watch. 

Four or five tense minutes later, another mob of orcs thundered past, the third he’d seen since venturing this way. The creatures’ boots stamped out a war-like tempo strong enough to shake the dirt beneath him. 

_By the Valar._ How many orcs were there in this wretched place? 

_Be grateful. It’s a good sign,_ a part of him pointed out grimly. _They are leaving the region._ It gave him hope his far-fetched plan might hold promise. _Please,_ he prayed. _Please._

Only when the stragglers faded down the road did he rise. “Erynor? I really hope this works,” he told his absent brother. 

Calenor didn’t give himself very good odds should this backfire. His gaze lifted to the looming Ephel Duath, then the jagged Morgai. His path would carry him between them. 

He exhaled gustily. Either his idea was a stroke of brilliance or exceptionally dumb. “Probably a bit of both,” he told himself softly. 

Calenor made his silent, careful way into the trough between the Morgai and the Ephel Duath. It took only a handful of steps before both peaks rose high on either side of him, leaving him in deeper darkness. 

He peered ahead and behind, searching for any signs that more orcs were coming. All looked clear. 

Calenor broke into a jog, thighs burning as his ascent began.

OoOoOo

_  
**Dagorlad, outskirts of Mordor**  
_

“Rizhir! To me.”

Yanar’s heart missed a beat, though he forced himself not to betray his instant alarm. By the Eye, had the commander seen?

At Yanar’s command, Rizhir had been taking advantage of the short break Ib-Lohrzor had called to permit the team to tend to their _emala_ and relieve aching bladders. The pale blond Novice-Arcanist had moved among the others, ostensibly to walk off the stiffness of his limbs, but all the while, Rizhir had covertly slipped purge weed into food supplies, one saddlebag at a time.

It was slow, nail-biting work. Yanar and Kyvin had done what they could to subtly distract attention from their teammate. Though Yanar’s nerves had frayed each minute, Rihzir had succeeded. The Novice had managed to poison the food pouches of a full two-thirds of the team’s complement. With each success, Yanar had breathed a little freer. 

Until now. 

_By the Pit._ Yanar watched Rizhir without seeming to as the other Novice-Arcanist trotted to the commander. What passed between them, Yanar could not hear, but he sweat away the seconds. He desperately hoped the commander took an interest in Rizhir because the other Novice-Arcanist belonged to House Sangahyando like Lohrzor. If the Weapon had seen what Rizhir was up to…

His eyes flew to Kyvin’s and found the dark-skinned, dark-eyed boy as tense as he. A question flew between them: _Act?_

Each boy subtly shook his head in the negative. _Too risky._

Kyvin’s aristocratic features shifted, his eyes flicked back to Rizhir with heavy significance. 

A glance, and Yanar’s shoulders unknotted. There was no angry denouncement, no execution. The longer that remained so, the more Yanar relaxed. 

Lohrzor didn’t know. His summoning of Rizhir was coincidence and nothing more. The relief Yanar felt was overpowering...and premature.

His breath hissed on his next inhale as he realized the large pitfall forming before the Novices’ feet. Events nudged them closer to the pit’s gaping edge when the ambush team’s break ended with a full third of the adults’ food untainted by the purge weed...purge weed contained in a pouch hanging from Rizhir’s hip. There was no way for Yanar or Kyvin to lift it from Rizhir when the other Novice rode at Lohrzor’s side. 

_Now what?_ Three Novices could not overcome the eleven unaffected adults even _if_ they dared to use their sorcery. The Novices would be darted or riddled with arrows before they managed to take out more than one or two of the adults— _if_ they were lucky. 

Worse, since some of the provisions were now tainted, it was only a matter of time before the poisoning came to light. Someone was bound to snack en route. 

The clock was ticking, and with each tock, time dwindled for Yanar to do…something. If adults began to fall ill, and Rizhir still had the purge weed on him, the other Arcanist would die, Yanar and Kyvin would follow soon after, and then suspicions would fall on the rest of Ib-Saldís’s team at the Isenmouthe. 

Yanar’s could have howled in frustration.

OoOoOo

_  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  
_

_We’re no better than slaves to them._

Novice Ciryan schooled the insult from his face, but inside, he simmered as he and five other Novices scrubbed tables and collected soiled dishes from Ar-Cavendor’s headquarters. 

Cavendor didn’t spare the six Novices so much as a glance as he marched into the room from wherever he’d been. Orders poured from the scarred warrior as soon as he’d crossed the threshold, orders for the waiting Lords Mordhalor, Vinuir, and Fuinur, as well as Commanders Niarvo, Buhnir, and Govien—the commanders acting as lords in Nahlis, Aemazia, and Kavish’s absences. 

Ciryan snorted privately. The idiots had no idea their counterparts in Caeldor were dead. From eavesdropping, Ciryan learned a messenger had been sent to Caeldor with orders to bring the rest of Caeldor’s Novices and warriors to Mordor—any above the age of twelve. 

_Good luck with that,_ he thought with scorn. Anger borne of resentment flared to life. 

With every act, the adults here confirmed Ciryan and his teammates had made the right decision. Yes, what they did was dangerous, but better their loyalties be with Ib-Saldís than these creeps. _She_ had treated them with value, like warriors and not just expendable kids. _She_ had risked her own neck for them. 

None of the men and women here would do the same.

Ciryan finished cleaning the last table and collected the silverware and dishes. Despite himself, his lip curled with disgust—probably a stupid act, but no one cared what a fourteen year old thought. The Black Númenóreans’ exalted leaders paid him no attention.

Porcelain plates and cups—was wood not good enough for them? The jerks pampered themselves with fine luxuries while the rest ate food not fit for dogs. 

They were in Mordor, by the Eye. What kind of idiot cared about fancy trappings here? Did they forget that the war to end all wars was breathing down their necks? Were they really so smug in their confidence that they thought all would go as the Dark Lord wished?

With a short jerk of the head, he ordered the other Novices to precede him out the door. They made it half way before the Mouth blocked the exit. In unison, the Novices froze in place.

The monster’s eyes inexplicably settled on Ciryan, and for one beat of his heart, it was all Ciryan could do not to fumble and drop his cargo. Why him? Why not notice Kizon who stood closer? Or that traitor, Ilhia, who did drop her dishes, her face white as a sheet as her load shattered loudly on the stone floor? 

But no, them the Mouth ignored. Ciryan’s flesh crawled the longer the Mouth’s black eyes moved over him. Then, the Mouth’s toothy grin flashed, and Ciryan’s bladder almost let loose. 

As sudden as the inspection had begun, it ended, and the Mouth’s attention drifted beyond Ciryan, releasing the Novice in a whoosh. Ciryan exhaled slowly, unable to shake the feeling that something really bad had just transpired. 

The Mouth spoke, and Ciryan’s attention snapped back to the creature. “Ar-Cavendor, our lord has an assignment—two in fact—for your people.”

The silence was incredible, and Ciryan noticed Ilhia sway, small tremors shaking her frame. Despite the fact that she was an enemy—she’d turned on her partner and disobeyed Ib-Saldís—Ciryan felt a measure of sympathy. If she fainted now, she was dead. 

“Name it,” Cavendor said. 

“Ib-Akhora infiltrated our lands with a dwarf army by means of the Pass of Cirith Ungol. For some reason, they have separated. Find me that army. Use every Arcanist available.” The Mouth’s teeth chattered, and chills broke out upon Ciryan’s skin. 

Dwarf army? Ciryan blinked. Was that possible? How could the Mouth know about a dwarf army and Ib-Saldís but not know where they were? 

“It shall be done. The second task?”

“Bring Ib-Akhora to me,” the Mouth crooned. 

Ciryan’s eyes flared, and his gaze rushed to another of Ib-Saldís’s troops. The Mouth knew where she was? _By the Eye. We’d better get to her first._ If the Novices failed, Ciryan wasn’t sure what his team could do to save her if she was hauled back to the Isenmouthe. Especially if the Mouth had her! 

_You don’t turn your back on a teammate,_ she’d told them more than once. Ciryan figured that meant their commander, too. Besides, they owed her. A memory rose up—the commander working with Ciryan on his defenses. There had been no public humiliation for his mistakes, no ridicule. That was the day she’d won Ciryan’s devotion.

“Of course,” Ar-Cavendor answered. “Where shall we find the traitor?”

The Mouth…laughed, and a shiver vibrated its way through Ciryan’s frame. “Ib-Valkthor is playing with her,” the Mouth said, and only his proximity to the Mouth prevented Ciryan from stiffening in alarm. “Should Valkthor survive, they will be found within sight of the Morrâd. Doubtless Akhora will remove herself from the area should Valkthor die as I anticipate. Take this one…” 

Ciryan’s eyes widened as the Mouth’s finger pointed right at him. _Why me?_

“…to locate her.” The Mouth’s smile grew, and its black eyes again burned into Ciryan. “An Arcanist can use this Novice’s blood to track her.” With that, the Mouth pivoted around and glided towards the exit. “After all, he is my offspring…and her half-brother.” 

Ciryan’s jaw dropped.

OoOoOo

_  
**Minas Morgul, Mordor**  
_

Thannor crouched low as he made his way nearer to Minas Dú, the air of dread that was a Ringwraith’s hallmark leading him onward. At his back, his brother-by-marriage followed. 

The two Rangers had searched the buildings around each wraith’s location. Minas Dú, Thannor hoped, would be the last. His heart told him his son would not be here—that none of his companions were—but his mind could not rest until he had certainty. 

Ten harrowing minutes later, he had that. The prisoners were not here. 

Thannor and Anuon retraced their steps up Minas Morgul’s streets, their pace accelerating as they gained distance from the wraiths. 

It was time to find and rejoin their friends.

OoOoOo

_  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  
_

Novice Alhez watched from within the crowd as the Mouth emerged from Ar-Cavendor’s headquarters. He ignored the discomfort of Mordor’s sour air as it passed his nostrils. He ignored the stifling heat exacerbated by his head scarf and the way his sweat-slicked curls stuck to his scalp. All of his faculties were bent upon the scene before him, intent. 

The Mouth had come visiting for a reason. Alhez and his team needed to know what that was.

Chilly fingers raced up his spine. From all Alhez had seen and heard, the Mouth wasn’t really a Black Númenórean anymore, nor even really a man. No, the Mouth was just what its name implied: a vessel. As Alhez studied…him?…he stifled a shiver. From the elongated, discolored teeth to the odd jerks of the head, the Mouth was wrong, and they all knew it. Knew and feared what it implied.

Even, Alhez thought, the adults.

His eyes flared, for right behind the Mouth came Ib-Niarvo of House Sangahyando. The brunette Arcanist was not one Alhez was too familiar with, though like all Novices, he recognized each commander on sight. Normally he’d think nothing of her except maybe— _maybe_ —to fantasize about her. The sultry Arcanist had to be the most alluring female on Arda, and he knew he wasn’t the only male helpless to avoid sneaking looks at her. 

But today was different. Today, she had a tight grip on Ciryan. 

The Mouth departed, face pointed towards Ost Egla. Niarvo paused at the top of the stairs and cocked one eyebrow at the crowd. 

Alhez growled low in the back of his throat. _Gut an orc._ What did she want with Ciryan? _Not an altar,_ a part of him half begged. The last thing the Novices needed was to be hunted for sport again. 

The Arcanist smiled her lazy smile before drawling loud enough for the entire assembly to hear, “The traitor, Akhora, has been found. Since she was House Sangahyando’s, we get the pleasure of rounding her up and delivering her…mostly whole…to the Mouth.”

Hostile rumbles moved through the crowd, and Alhez forced himself to pretend he was equally and murderously offended. Within, he groaned. The commander handed over to the Mouth? No, she was their leader. She was their link to that Ranger chieftain, Aragorn, and a future. He and his team couldn’t lose her. 

_If she talks, the Mouth will know about us, too._ Alhez’s lips flattened. The commander wouldn’t betray them…

Suddenly, Voral materialized at his side. “Alhez, Tahal said to get you,” the younger, round-faced boy whispered.

_Now?_

“That Ranger was found, but Cavendor told House Vinuir’s Arcanists to use a Morgul blade on him.”

…unless she had no choice. 

Alhez’s shoulders tensed. If Cavendor or the Mouth used one of those on the commander, Sauron would learn everything, including that a bunch of kids had betrayed him. There would be no place on Arda safe for them. Sauron _did not_ forget betrayal. 

Alhez grabbed Voral and slowly eased them from the crowd while Niarvo rattled off a list of names. The men and women designated rushed off to collect their _emala._ Worse, it looked like Niarvo intended to take Ciryan with her. Why?

The instant the two Novices were clear, only discipline and the knowledge that they could not afford to attract attention kept them from running. Instead they walked…fast…to find Tahal and Gylmal.

OoOoOo

_  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor**  
_

Saldís’s teeth ground together as she rolled beneath a blast of fire, only to curse when the combined glimpse of flame and stench of smoldering fabric informed her she hadn’t moved fast enough. Off came the scarf, dropped onto the dirt as Valkthor’s evil chuckle broke the silence that had stretched between them. 

The door containing the bulk of her rage cracked open, spewing venomous liquid in all directions. Laughter? A hurled stone put an end to that, opening a gash across his brow. 

Valkthor howled, his face twisting in an ugly snarl. Saldís capitalized on his momentary distraction, diving to reclaim one of her many spent throwing knives. 

Valkthor spat a litany of words, and the hair on her arms stood on end. Another spell. _Orc spit._

She threw the dagger and could have ululated loudly—if she’d breath to spare—when Valkthor evaded it. The Arcanist’s chant never faltered. 

Mahal. It was coming, and she braced herself, both sides of her keenly alert. The _ugrad_ gestured…and her lungs were instantly brimming with brackish water. 

_Urkhas kûd!_ Down she crashed to her knees, body reacting beyond her control. Folding over, she coughed and retched violently enough to tear her body apart. 

_Mahal._ Saldís struggled for a scrap of air, to breathe, curse it, while her lungs convulsed. Durin’s beard, they were aflame with agony, and every time they managed to expel some of the water, Valkthor’s magics replaced it. 

A distant part of her wildly boggled. How many vials of blood did Valkthor have? This unleashing of magics was unprecedented in scope. 

Soft footsteps neared, the sound almost lost beneath her hacking. Valkthor was approaching. 

_His mistake,_ her Akhora side snarled. Still coughing and choking, she awkwardly spun on her tail bone at the last minute, looped a foot around his, and yanked him off balance. If he’d not been shaking from the expenditure of magic, it never would have worked.

But work, it did. Valkthor reeled backwards, his concentration broken. The spell ended. When she disgorged liquid, it was not replenished.

Saldís wheezed for breath, one hand clenching her scimitar, the other clawing into the earth. Explosive coughs ripped through her, one after the other. 

_Get up,_ Akhora railed. 

As if she was not trying. Saldís surged upwards only to topple back down, her spasming lungs sapping her legs of strength. Through eyes filmed with tears of strain, she strove to keep her enemy in sight. 

He’d take advantage of her vulnerable state, that she didn’t doubt. Soon, he’d decide to end this if he could. She well knew he’d dragged this out, hoping to play with her. 

Their private war had carried Saldís and Valkthor from sight of—a dagger’s thrust of grief—Finnin’s body and the road. Valkthor had downed five or six vials of blood during their fight, and her body bore evidence of his spells. She was soaked, scorched, battered, and bleeding, but despite the fury of the elemental forces he unleashed, she was not dead. Not yet. 

Nor would she be before she removed the arrogant piece of filth from Arda. By all the orcs in Mordor, Saldís might bear the proof of Valkthor’s successes on her flesh, but he carried hers, too. His shoulder bled profusely, one of her daggers yet lodged within it. His nose was broken, his lower lip split, and a slice of skin and trousers was missing from his left thigh. 

A crack of knuckles was her only warning. A sudden blast of earth slammed into her chest, and Saldís was send flying.

She smashed down a good twenty paces from her foe, skidding across dirt and rocks. She couldn’t stop coughing. 

_Durin’s beard!_ Saldís wheezed and hacked, fighting for every shallow inhale. Each successful snatch of air seemed to spawn another dozen coughs. 

She rolled onto her side, forehead against the ground as she tried to collect herself. Spots danced in her vision. _Keep moving,_ she growled to herself. _Above all, **don’t** let Valkthor win._

One hand groped for the hilt of her scimitar, but just as her fingers grazed it, a booted foot kicked it away.

Gritty, blood-caked hands forced her, struggling weakly and coughing all the while, to her belly. Then, a weight settled itself on her posterior and knees locked around her hips. 

The door cracked wider. 

Valkthor took hold of her hair with one hand and yanked her head back. When she fought him, his cheek pressed to hers…and he cut off her air. A blue glow emanated below her chin, out of sight. _Son of a warg!_

“Now, now. None of that, _dear_ sister.” The vice around her neck tightened until she stilled, her lips twisted in a snarl. “Better,” he crooned, his cheek rubbing hers. 

Saldís trembled with revulsion. What was he—? The spell vanished, leaving her to gasp and cough, pulling against his grip on her hair. 

‘Twas then Valkthor dangled a vial before her nose. Only when he was sure he had her full attention did his thumb remove the wax stopper. “Smell it?” he crooned into her ear. His chest rumbled with laughter…and he all but rubbed himself against her in his excitement. 

Her skin crawled. Wider and wider the door cracked until Saldís struggled to remember why she fought it. She wanted Valkthor dead, dead and stamped out until not a bit of him was recognizable. It wouldn’t begin to repay the _muzm_ for what he’d done, for all he’d stolen, but by Mahal, it would be a start.

“I got this from your precious dwarf father.” 

Every scrap of air wheezed from her lips, bringing on a renewed fit of coughs. 

Lips brushed her ear. “Just before the Mouth…Kimilzor…killed him.”

For one painful beat of her heart, time stopped. Everything just…stopped.

Then open the door slammed with enough force to shatter. Out raged hatred and fury and a monstrous need—a gnawing, bottomless hunger—for revenge. For one beat of her heart, Saldís and Akhora melded into one.

Just as fast, Saldís was swept aside. Akhora soared to the helm, her essence bolstered, nay _fed,_ by the wealth of fury unleashed, a fury Saldís could not argue against. Nay, she raged too, and it served only to fortify her other self’s ascent. 

Within her own mind, Saldís shouted out her fury and frustration…and was shackled by her own hatred. 

Akhora ignored her Saldís-self’s screams, her attention firmly on her foe. Cold, ruthless logic reigned, and utter confidence. This was the day Valkthor would be at her mercy, and she savored the knowledge.

_The fool,_ she purred. As a sorcerer, Valkthor’s weapons were better utilized from a distance. To hand her the keys to freedom _and_ put himself in arm’s reach?

Between coughs, her lips crooked in a wicked smile. “Poor…Val-Valkthor.” _Cough, cough, cough._ “You’ll n—never know what you’ve done.” _Wheeze._ “I should…th-thank you.”

The lack-wit stiffened. The vial rushed upwards for his lips.

Too late. Quick as a viper, Akhora stabbed him in the throat with stiffened fingers. Her opposite hand then dug at his eyes until they burst. Goo coated her fingers. 

The vial clattered to the cracked ground, spilling its contents. Akhora didn’t let loose, following when Valkthor fell over backwards in a mindless attempt to escape her, his eyes a ruined mess. 

He screamed. How she loved the sound. It was better than she’d imagined, having him at her mercy. 

The wretch flailed, but she straddled him, contained him. “Where…” _Cough._ “Where are your magics now, sorcerer?” She kissed his cheek, chuckling as he bucked in an attempt to dislodge her. She wiped messy fingers on his tunic, then she collected her scimitar and pressed it to his neck. 

Valkthor froze. This time, it was she who whispered in his ear. “All this time. Who would have thought it would be you to set me free? For that, I might give you the mercy of a quick death.” 

She paused. In a murmur, “So. Dear daddy murdered the meddling dwarf, did he?” 

_Good,_ she thought, ignoring the way Saldís railed and banged fists upon the edges of her mind. The poor fool only fed Akhora with her rage, and Akhora snickered that it was so. _How the tables have turned._

Then crooning, “Where is Kimilzor?”

OoOoOo

Ten minutes later, Akhora headed north, Valkthor’s blades and weapons stowed on her person and his pouch of poisons tucked in her boot where the flute used to be. That, she’d left in the dirt with the pendant near Valkthor’s body.

The future was an open road before her. She was no pansy Gondorian and would never join them, but she was no longer fettered by some idiotic notion of loyalty to Ar-Cavendor and the Black Númenóreans, either. None would ever command her again. 

Perhaps, she thought with a smirk, she’d make her way to Umbar. It was needing a new Captain of the Haven, for the last dunce had from all accounts left his port city undefended. 

Pirate queen. She rather liked the sound of that. 

But first, she had business here. 

Saldís should be happy. If it was revenge that part of her wished, she’d be getting it in spades.

Starting with Kimilzor.


	58. I Spy...a Traitor

_**The Isenmouthe, Mordor  
24 March TA 3019** _

The muscles along Erynor’s neck and shoulders clamped tighter with every word two of Saldís’s teenaged monsters, otherwise known as Gylmal and Mazir, urgently whispered to him. Novices Tahal and Alhez stood watch outside with most of Saldís’s Novices, their focus upon a nondescript, squat building three doors down. Berenor was in there, and from what the Novices had told Erynor, the place was nothing short of a torture chamber.

His stomach churned sickly. _Eru._ He’d known it would be bad, but hearing such stark terms… What had the Black Númenóreans done to his brother? 

Since his earliest memories, Berenor had been there, often grinning at the trouble Erynor inevitably landed The Brothers in. Panic clawed at Erynor’s throat to think of losing either of his lifelong friends. 

The awareness never left him. Berenor was only a couple buildings away, and impatience grew with each minute that delayed him from reaching Berenor’s side, no matter how necessary. 

_Charging in without a plan?_ he could hear Berenor drawl with eyes sparkling. _Didn’t we teach you better than that?_

They had. By Eru Iluvitar Himself, they had. 

Erynor forced his attention back to the litany of events the Novices recounted for him. Berenor needed him, yes, but so did these kids. No matter his irritation at the way they’d left him— _tied,_ by the Valar—they were children and his kinsmen. Erynor could not turn his back on them.

_No more than you could, Cousin,_ he thought to Saldís.

With each disclosure, Erynor’s lips compressed harder until they tingled. Ib-Niarvo and two handfuls of House Sangahyando’s Weapons had departed, taking Saldís’s half-brother ( _Eru._ Did Saldís have any idea Ciryan was her brother?) along for tracking purposes. Gondorians marched on the Black Gates and were expected within another day if the Black Númenóreans’ ambush failed. (What madness prompted the men of Gondor to such insanity?) Bofur and Bifur remained missing, and the Mouth and Ar-Cavendor had somehow come to believe that a dwarf army had infiltrated Mordor with Saldís. 

That last, Erynor admitted, was at least in the Black Company’s favor. Finding the army was—along with preparing for Gondor’s assault—consuming the bulk of the Black Númenóreans’ attention. Well, that and watching for traitors from within. According to Gylmal, Berenor was never left alone. 

_Oh yes, and the Mouth has a Morgul blade,_ Erynor tacked on with heavy frustration. _Mustn’t forget that._ He dredged fingers through his hair. As Saldís was fond of saying, _Orc spit._

Chance alone had resulted in a Novice overhearing that with Akhora’s arrival on the scene, the Mouth’s plans had changed. Berenor would be spared a future as a wraith. For now, at least. That joy the Mouth intended for Saldís. 

Erynor took that to mean the enemy had only the one blade. A relief, yes, but even one was too many. He could not stand idle and let Saldís meet that fate. Using Ciryan, the Númenóreans would find not only Erynor’s honorary cousin but Finnin, Nori, Dori, Thannor and Anuon as well. Erynor might soon find more of the Black Company needing rescue than only Berenor. 

As the two Novices’ words wound down, Erynor dropped to a squat on his heels, elbows on knees and fingers to his lips. So many lives in the balance. All his life, Erynor had functioned with his brothers beside him. Now, it was up to Erynor alone. He felt stripped naked, vulnerable. Erynor’s steps now would have lasting consequences, for good or ill. 

_Eru speed and guide your steps, Calenor. I wish you were here._ His brother’s mission was critical, but by the Valar, he hoped Calenor hurried. 

It didn’t take Erynor long to reach an obvious conclusion, one he hated. “We cannot free Berenor. Not yet,” he said, his voice laced with regret and anger. _Forgive me,_ he sent to his suffering brother.

Yahzin stiffened. Her glare speared down at him.

“We can’t,” he said with more authority, rising to his feet. “Think, all of you.” His gaze shifted to include Gylmal, Mazir, and the handful of Novices lingering in the barracks with them. “Berenor is constantly guarded. To overcome the number of guards you describe, we’d have to rush the building, probably a dozen of us. Without a really good distraction, we’d be discovered.”

Gylmal’s gray eyes hooded. “Maybe Mount Doom will do us a favor and erupt,” the teen growled, his face betraying a frustration as great as Erynor’s. 

A bitter laugh escaped Erynor. _Well said._ “Somehow, I don’t think it’s likely to blow for our convenience. No. We bide our time. If we act too soon, we tip our hand. If we manage to save Berenor now, and Saldís’s team is captured, it will be doubly hard to get to them.” 

“Try impossible.” Gylmal’s lips twisted unhappily.

“Still want to be one of the good guys?” The words escaped Erynor’s lips without thought. _Oh, Eru._

Gylmal and Mazir exchanged a glance no longer than a blink. Then both teen boys smirked and nodded. 

Erynor exhaled in a rush. Good. Yes, that was…good. If the kids ever _did_ decide to turn on him, Erynor was fully aware he’d be dead meat. 

“Okay,” he said. “Alright. Here is what we will do. I want every Novice ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Just in case.” Not that many of them would get far if it came to that. _By Eru, let it not come to that._

Erynor hoped the precaution was never needed, for it would mean the worst had happened. He clung to the hope that somehow Saldís, Thannor and the others would evade capture. That Erynor and the Novices could concoct a brilliant distraction, snatch Berenor, and none would be the wiser that the Novices had ever been involved.

It was a fragile hope. Even the best of plans went wrong, and Erynor was fully cognizant that his plan was not that. It didn’t qualify as a plan, really, good or bad. 

Erynor turned to each Novice, one at a time. “I want each of you to have provisions on you and be ready for a fight. We do nothing…” He stared at Yahzin until she reluctantly dipped her head in acquiescence. 

Satisfied, Erynor continued. “We do nothing until we have a place to retreat to or Cavendor forces our hand. If we can, we wait for Calenor’s return and Saldís to arrive. Once that’s happened, we orchestrate a diversion and grab Berenor.”

_If_ Calenor could find a safe place. _If_ Saldís and the rest of the Black Company weren’t dragged into town in chains. By the Valar, there were too many ifs. 

“So that’s it? We wait?” Yahzin asked in a tight voice.

Erynor permitted his frustration to bleed through when he answered. “We have no choice. You and I will stay near Berenor. If at any time it sounds like he’s in imminent and lethal peril, we’ll grab him.” To the Pit with the consequences. “In the meantime, I need ideas. We need a diversion. A big one.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor**  
_

Finnin collapsed onto his back, teeth clenched. Mahal curse it, he was bleeding like a stuck pig. When his Saldís gutted a man, the lass meant it—even if she had gotten the target wrong.

An awkward tilt of the head confirmed his fears. Though it felt he’d dragged his body after the combating siblings for hours, he’d only managed to slide on his arse a dozen feet, mayhap a foot or two less. 

His eyes squeezed shut. Fear for his love clanged with each beat of his heart, for though he strained to listen, he heard no sounds of fighting. Sure indication, a part of him thought, that one of the two fighters had emerged victorious.

_Let it be Saldís,_ he willed. Not Valkthor. Never Valkthor. 

_She thinks me dead,_ Finnin thought not for the first time, and a hollow feeling took up residence in his heart. That worm, Valkthor, had tricked her yet again, and Finnin could not but panic at what the erroneous belief would do to his lady. She’d been devastated at his “death”, she had, her bereavement so keen it had caused tears to flood Finnin’s eyes, too. He’d tried to reach out to her, but some invisible force had kept him pinned to the thrice-accursed ground. None of his words reached her ears.

Finnin had to get to her. So said his soul and struggling heart. Finnin collected himself for another mighty effort…but his trembling limbs gave out, and he collapsed on the ground. Nay. Nay! 

Weakness had all but consumed him, one big bite at a time, until there was naught left. Without aid, he stood no hope of dragging himself to her, and that was if he could even find her. 

With no other choice, cursing events all the while, Finnin waited and listened for indication, be it ever so small, that might tell him of his love’s fate. As the minutes trickled by without her return, his fear for Saldís grew icier. 

Saldís would never abandon him, not of her own volition. As sure as the sun rose every morning, Saldís would have returned if only to say farewell to his body. 

If she could. Finnin had witnessed the air lighting up with fire more than once during the battle—a sight fit to scare decades from his life—but there had been not even a wisp of a sound in too long. 

_She cannot be dead. She cannot._ Too many times he’d lost her, and he didn’t mind telling his Maker he was right tired of the circumstance repeating itself. 

Nay, his Saldís lived. She must. 

Consciousness faded and returned in snatches. There was naught to demarcate time’s passage, so there was no knowing if minutes passed or hours.

That is until one time, Finnin’s eyes snapped open to find he was not alone. Thannor and Anuon’s white-lined faces appeared over him. What they said, he could make no sense of, but Finnin tried to tell them what had transpired. Mahal knew he did, but he managed only slurs bearing little resemblance to the words intended. 

Finnin cursed anew within the confines of his head when control of his body escaped him yet again. By Durin’s ax, all he could do was lie there, eyesight blurry, ears a-roaring, and body unresponsive. His Saldís was in urgent need of their aid. Had they understood? 

Mahal. He again willed his lips to form words, begging his Maker—but they did not heed him. It felt another failure, and a tear of frustration and anguish escaped his left eye.

Finnin must have lost consciousness, for the next time the dwarf warrior managed to crack his eyelids open, only Anuon remained. The Ranger’s lips were but a white slash across his face as he worked to fix the damage to Finnin’s abdomen. 

_Bâhzundushuh. My Dushin-Mizim._ Finnin could not die, not now. He’d not held his Saldís enough nor kissed her soft lips. There had been no time for tender exchanges and sweet, loving words. 

Finnin’s plight looked unpromising. That, he knew right well. But nothing would induce him into meekly going to his grave, not while there was a sliver of a chance his lass was out there needing him. 

Nay, he’d fight as he’d never fought before. So he promised his love and himself before again succumbing to oblivion.

OoOoOo

_  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  
_

Akhora butchered the warg with cold satisfaction. She’d procured the snarling, ill-tempered mount from a too-inquisitive orc— _May maggots feast on its body_ —and had fought the accursed warg the entire way to the Isenmouthe. It’s purpose fulfilled, the warg could rot like its rider.

After wiping her blade and blood-soaked hands on a patch of unstained but filthy fur, she sheathed her scimitar. Every muscle in her body quivered. By the Eye, who would have imagined keeping the animal controlled would require so much effort? It had not ceased from attempting to turn on her with its sharp teeth, necessitating she keep an unfailingly tight grip on the metal reins, forcing its head to face forward no matter its druthers.

_Foul beast._ She kicked its carcass for good measure. The repulsive animal should have respected its betters. 

Rotating her shoulders to alleviate stiffness, her attention turned to the fortified outpost beneath the Isenmouthe some seven hundred yards away. The warg and orc had only served to whet her thirst for violence. At long, long last, vengeance for a lifetime of wrongs was within Akhora’s grasp. 

The stone and metal town hugged the Isenmouthe’s backside as well as the road leading to the Black Gates, and from her distant view, it was a cauldron of activity. Black Númenóreans moved upon its streets, and even as Akhora watched, orcs jogged down the central thoroughfare, heading north. 

So focused, they all were, so utterly unaware of what she’d soon unleash among them. Her lips curled in an unpleasant smile. Fingers caressed the hilt of the dwarf-forged scimitar. Nothing short of death would stop her.

With senses alert, she jogged away from the road, watchful for unfriendly eyes and seeking a less obvious point of entry. A window, perhaps. Though the roofs of the buildings possessed jagged spikes reminiscent of the Isenmouthe looming over them, they too were a possibility. 

Difficult to pass, she deemed them. Not impossible. 

As she neared her destination, more details came into view. The rearmost buildings’ back walls were attached to sections of metal, forming a cohesive barrier. It was crude and imperfect, but as in Caeldor, the Black Númenóreans likely never dreamed they’d have invaders testing their defenses. Not here.

They were in Mordor, and more, they expected to be the aggressors in the war for Middle Earth. Akhora bet herself it never crossed Ar-Cavendor’s mind that the mighty Black Númenóreans might find themselves on the defensive.

Especially by one of their own. 

_You will rue ever touching me,_ she promised them. Her gaze sought the burning Eye atop Barad-Dur. Would he sense it as she began to remove his most valuable Black Númenórean pieces?

_Stop me if you can,_ she dared him. _If your vaunted Eye can manage to find me._

Akhora trotted along the makeshift town wall, hugging its length and darting every animal she spied. There were not many. Normal animals would not venture into this misbegotten land, so her furry and feathered victims had to be Arcanist pets. 

A malicious smile curled her lips. She wished the Arcanists luck in replacing them while within Mordor. 

Impatience gnawed at her. Her fury thirsted for a bloody outlet, and by the accursed Eye, she would have her vengeance, blood and all.   
After prowling back and forth a few times, she chose her attack point: a third story window blocked by metal shutters. From below, those shutters appeared sealed, but unlike the other windows she’d examined, this window’s seal looked half-hearted. The shutters vibrated with each moan of the wind, arguing with the latch. 

She clucked her tongue soundlessly. Someone had been lax. 

Akhora squatted to dust her palms in preparation of the climb, attention on the window as she plotted her path. Step there, then reach so. The wall was smoother than she liked, but it was not slick. There were sliver-wide holds enough that she just might be able to take advantage of. 

A short nod, and she rose. Off came her boots. For this, she’d need every bit of advantage she could gain, and her boots were ill-suited to such climbing. She tied the laces together and looped them over her shoulder. Next, she clamped her dagger between her teeth, lips and tongue retracted from the blade’s edge. 

She started her climb. 

The ascent was not without mishaps, but she dismissed them as paltry—they were nothing when compared to the burns and aching muscles. She sliced the bottom of one bare foot upon a sharp brick edge, and bruised her knee when dragging herself up by the arms, but by the Eye, she reached her destination undetected.

Once precariously perched beside the window, Akhora eased her dagger between the shutter’s slats. Finding the locking mechanism took half a minute. A moment later, the shutter relaxed open without so much as a squeak. 

A hurled dagger silenced the room’s occupant before the female noticed Akhora’s presence. A quick scan revealed no others lurking about. Akhora slithered over the sill. Then crouching, she secured the shutters better than the dead woman had managed.

She set about preparing herself, ensuring each weapon was present and in easy reach. There could be no faltering, no delays once she began. Her impatience boiled over.

_The Lords first. Cavendor and Kimilzor with them._ Akhora readied the blowpipe before affixing it to a loop on her pants. She next pilfered everything of use from the dead Weapon’s body and packed saddlebags.

Akhora’s head cocked to one side. _Going somewhere?_ She remembered her Saldís-self’s musings about Mordor’s troop movements. If the Black Númenóreans prepared to march, Akhora’s timing could not have been better. They would be distracted, focused upon readying themselves. 

Perfect. She stalked towards the door. In a breathy voice, she growled sinisterly, “Hello, Daddy. I’m home. Did you miss me?”

Before she died— _if_ she died—she intended to leave behind a trail of bodies, the more the better. Enough to teach these wretches the folly of crossing her. Her hatred relished the carnage to come.

Yes. At long, long last, it was time to start killing things.

OoOoOo

Saldís watched. ‘Twas all she could do other than rage and weep.

Finnin was murdered, Adâd had suffered a death that must have been ripe with suffering, and it was her life— _hers_ —that had brought both to pass. If not for Saldís, the dwarves she loved best would even now be living out their lives in Ered Luin and Erebor, ignorant of Mordor and the dangers building to the south. They would be laughing, breathing, and she wouldn’t permit herself to lose sight of that. 

‘Twas her fault. All of it.

Anger roiled through her like the molten core of Mount Doom. Aye, anger and self-loathing. She could neither swallow them back nor douse them. 

She did not wish to. Not this time. The tempest was massive and absolute, and Saldís’s every failed attempt to oust Akhora served only to make the volcano rumble all the more dangerously. 

She raged. Unheard and unseen by any but the evil witch that was her darker half, Saldís screamed and railed her anguish and fury without cease. If she’d had use of her throat, it would have faltered long ago from the violence of her cries. 

Adâd. Finnin. Bofur. By Durin, they deserved justice. Higher and higher the anger climbed, chains of her own forging that ensured she remained trapped. Only by forsaking her wrath could she hope to challenge Akhora, and that she refused to do. 

No, for her love, for her adâd, a price would be paid. She would not relinquish her rage. 

Akhora had truly won at last.

OoOoOo

_  
**North Ithilien, Gondor**  
_

A night of hard riding had passed, and the sun was lifting its head on the eastern horizon when the first member of the Black Númenórean ambush fell ill. Yanar couldn’t complain. Purge weed took an hour, maybe less, to take effect. It was a miracle he, Rizhir, and Kyvin had not been unmasked as traitors long before the group crossed into North Ithilien. 

_It’s started._

Yanar’s nerves had thrummed with anxiety all night in anticipation of this moment. He’d wracked his brain the entire time, desperate to fix his blunder, but he couldn’t see any way through this mess. 

By the Eye, Yanar should never have given the orders he had to Rizhir. Never! Not when it put every one of Ib-Saldís’s Novices in danger. A full one-third of the the ambush team carried untainted food. When the other two-thirds of their compatriots fell ill, they would know the poisoning for what it was. 

_Orcs and wargs._ If Yanar utilized his sorcery now to shift the powdered weed from Rizhir’s pouch to its intended targets successfully—and with the pendant hanging heavy around his neck, Yanar was painfully leery of that—it was already far, far too late. Poison the remaining food stores, and they might not be touched in time…if at all.

At this point, the end would be the same no matter what he did. Too many adults would be hale when they realized the plot against them. It would be a bloodbath with Yanar and his two teammates providing the blood. 

Yanar’s grip on his _emala’s_ reins turned painful. _I don’t want to die._ A shocking realization. In the past, he’d had nothing really to fight for. Obstinacy alone had kept him going. That and (he’d admit) a juvenile desire to lash out at the world for the wrongs done him.

Now, he had hope. A new life waited for him, and Yanar refused to meekly hand that over. 

The ambush team halted when the first victim’s vomiting turned violent. Yanar sat in sweaty, terse silence as Ib-Lohrzor backtracked to the stricken Weapon’s side. 

Yanar’s lip twisted with revulsion, his own stomach roiling in sympathy. He-Lerrin retched over his _emala’s_ side, his face pallid and shaky. Soon, Yanar knew, would come the second of purge weed’s effects. Once that started, there was no way the _emala_ prancing beneath the vomiting man would tolerate his rider. 

“We have no time for this, He-Lerrin. By the Eye! If you were feeling poorly, you should have told me sooner,” Lohrzor barked. 

Lerrin weakly professed his innocence. 

“Stay here and rot. We’ll collect you when we’ve achieved victory.” With that, Ib-Lohrzor shoved the sick Weapon off his _emala_ and dragged the animal’s reins to another Weapon. To the team, “Anyone else have a confession to make?” 

No one spoke, and no hands lifted. Yanar hadn’t expected there to be. After that display, if any were beginning to feel ill, they’d hide it as long as they could.

“Good. We ride.” 

Lohrzor left the incapacitated man helpless in the dirt. Whether He-Lerrin would live to recover or end in the gullet of a wild animal was anyone’s guess. 

Yanar silently seethed. Once again, the Black Númenóreans reinforced the lesson Ib-Saldís’s Novices were learning well: among “their” people, none cared. Her way was better. Her way was worth fighting for. 

Yanar exhaled slowly. For now, Lohrzor believed Lerrin’s plight a fluke. That would end the instant others fell ill. 

_Eleven against three are terrible odds,_ a part of him half-moaned, half-snarled with growing fear—as if Yanar needed the reminder. And those terrible odds were only possible if the other two-thirds of the adults fell ill within a short span of time. If not, things would be much, much worse. The adults had decades of battle experience upon which to draw. Yanar was sixteen years old, Kyvin and Rizhir fifteen. They were outclassed in every way. 

Perhaps, he thought, the three of them should have kept quiet until they reached the ambush site and tried to slip away. Perhaps the three Novices had bitten off more than they could chew in attempting to undermine this mission. 

The realization was too late to do them a lick of good. 

Yes, they were going to die. 

_At least we made a difference,_ he thought with sudden ferocity. He, Kyvin, and Rizhir had succeeded to an extent. If those with the poisoned provisions had eaten before the poisoning became apparent—a not unlikely event given the hours that had passed—the three Novices had slashed the number of Black Númenóreans that would be fit to join the ambush. 

The Gondorians might never know of it, but Yanar and his teammates’ actions mattered. 

The landscape abruptly changed. One minute, the team’s birds raced across a barren plain. The next, the _emala_ weaved among deciduous, green-tipped trees. 

Yanar bent low over his bird’s neck as branch after branch threatened to rip him from his saddle. A few members of the ambush grunted and wood snapped, signaling collisions. Yanar did not hear the crash of a body hitting ground, but his ears were certain those few had suffered bruising impacts. So consumed was he with his fears, he barely gloated.

With the birds dodging around trunks, it was an easy thing for Kyvin to gain Yanar’s side without obvious intent. “Get ready to vanish,” the other Novice hissed. So low were the words, Yanar almost missed them. “When it starts…” A tree separated them, then their _emala_ came back together. “…get to that Aragorn.”

Yanar scowled. “We don’t abandon teammates, remember?”

Dark, dark eyes flicked Yanar’s way. “Soon ’s they know what Rizhir’s done, the team back in Mordor is in danger. You have to warn them. You’re the strongest.”

Yanar growled low in his throat. Kyvin was right…but he was wrong, too. Yanar was the oldest. He was a better Arcanist than either of the other two. No, it was Yanar’s duty to engage the enemy so his teammates could escape. 

Before he could say as much, Kyvin said, “Just be ready…” Another tree parted them. Their _emala_ came back together. “…might not be necessary.” 

“How do you figure that?” Yanar spat back. 

Kyvin’s dark and aristocratic face lightened with a smirk. “Rizhir’s still working. By my count, he’s managed to dose at least another four bags.”

Yanar’s head whipped forward. He squinted. 

_I don’t believe it._ The other Novice used the trees to explain near misses with adult after adult, all right under Ib-Lohrzor’s nose. 

Would it be enough?

_It’s too late,_ the pragmatic side of himself warned. Rizhir’s attempt was noble enough—by the Eye, Yanar was proud to have such a teammate—but even if those with newly dosed food ate immediately, it would be close to an hour before they felt it. 

_Far, far too late,_ that inner voice once again warned. 

A handful of increasingly nail-biting minutes followed. Rizhir’s efforts ended when the team’s _emala_ broke free of the forest. Rolling green hills stretched out in all directions. Wildflowers danced in the mild breezes. 

For a moment, Yanar was entranced by the beauty spread out before him. He felt stupid for it, but by the Pit, this might be the last time he had to appreciate such a simple thing as a flower. He wistfully wondered what other sights Arda offered that he’d never get to see. All his life had been hardship and darkness, blood and death. 

A sudden, fervid wish popped into existence: if he ever did get that new life, he wanted it to be spent exploring all the good things Arda had to offer.

A pointless wish now. 

Ne-Garrish and He-Virna began to vomit. Lohrzor called a halt with one upraised fist. Ne-Azzer half-slid, half-fell from her mount in her haste to reach ground to empty her belly. 

Lohrzor’s eyes narrowed and slid to Rizhir. 

Yanar braced himself. Of course he would suspect Rizhir first. Who else had been moving among the troops as Rizhir had? 

“I will engage them,” Yanar whispered to Kyvin. His gaze cut to the other Novice-Arcanist, halting Kyvin’s words of objection. “Don’t argue. You and Rizhir find Aragorn. That’s an order.”

The fears and dread that had hounded Yanar sloughed off. He’d been trained for this. There was no more time for debilitating fears or doubts. Now was the time for war.

Yanar sliced his forearm, needing the currency for his next actions.

“Yanar,” Kyvin protested.

“Live,” Yanar told his teammate. “Go and live. Grab hold of that new life she promised us. For me.” Not waiting for further objections, Yanar cloaked himself in a sight shield, vanishing from view. None noticed his absence but Kyvin. 

Good. He quietly dismounted his _emala_ and crept away from the bird. 

Yes, this was war, and Yanar intended to do as much damage as he could. Calling upon every lesson beaten into him by the Hands, Yanar softly intoned the words for his opening salvo, the most impressive spell he knew…

…and voracious flames shot down from heaven to engulf Ib-Lohrzor in a twisting inferno. The commander was burning before he had any idea he was in danger. 

Lohrzor screamed. By the Eye, he screamed such awful screams. His _emala_ shrieked and dumped its rider onto the green grass before racing off with saddle and feathers ablaze. It didn’t get far. 

Yanar’s stomach knotted, though he tried to distance himself from what he’d done. He’d burned things before—even people—but never like this. Never to the death, and never pulling such terrible cries from his victim. 

He swallowed bile, hating his actions but knowing them necessary. Yanar either struck, or Rizhir died. 

The team dismounted in a hurry, and weapons appeared in hands. “The Novices,” a man spat. “One’s missing. They’ve turned on us.”

“Find them!” a woman growled. 

_Go,_ Yanar willed. _Live my…_ A weak flick of the lips, a ray of appreciation. … _my brothers._

Yes. Ib-Saldís and his teammates were his family—the only family he’d ever known, and if he died defending them? Well, he figured that was as good a way to go as any. 

_Keep their focus on me._ Yanar dropped his first spell, his limbs shaking from exertion. Lhorzor’s blackened body no longer moved. 

He considered his next strike, gouging his arm deeper for more fuel, his feet moving…moving. He could not remain still, or he’d be found easily. 

When a blast of air slammed through the space feet from him, he wobbled and barely kept his balance. _Too close._ The air spell tore up the grown and shrubbery in a swath that extended at least a hundred yards.

If that had hit him, he’d have died instantly. He’d have failed Rizhir and Kyvin. Yanar growled at himself. He had to keep the enemy engaged long enough for his brothers to escape! 

Not far away, another Arcanist gasped as a pale blue glow enveloped his neck. 

_What is…?_ A cold realization. Kyvin or Rizhir had remained behind. By the Eye, why hadn’t they run? 

He had to abandon the worry. One Arcanist called down a brief spurt of rain, darkening the sky, and quickly followed it up with a dust cloud. Three Arcanists who had retreated behind shields of their own became visible as blurred outlines. Only by hastily erecting an air shield to keep all dust from his sopping body did Yanar avoid the same outcome.

His sight dimmed as fatigue punched through him. _No time,_ he lashed himself. _Keep going._ Yanar used an air spell of his own to commandeer an arrow from a Weapon’s bow before the Weapon could fire it and propelled the arrow into another Weapon’s neck. 

Chaos. The green glade became a battlefield. Spells were lobbed about freely, and arrows and darts joined them. Beetles exploded from the ground and swarmed in all directions, covering every body they encountered whether sight-shielded or not.

Including Yanar.

“There!” he heard a man shout. 

Yanar gouged himself deeper, desperate to keep up his volleys when he saw another beetle-spotted form materialize on the group’s outskirts: Kyvin. Yanar had to keep the others from noticing. 

It was then, between one lobbed fireball and another, that an overwhelming and smothering sense of evil slammed into Yanar like a club. He barely noticed that the attacks against him halted. _By the…_

The words trickled off as a flaming orb with elongated pupil appeared in his mind’s eye. Yanar’s next breath caught as unmitigated terror exploded in his chest. Something scorched the flesh on his breastbone—the pendant!—but when he grappled to throw it from him, hot metal seared his palms.

Yanar shouted and crashed to his knees. In his mind, the Eye flamed brighter and brighter. 

_I see you,_ Sauron thundered. _I **hear** you._ Yanar dropped onto his side, helplessly curling into a ball. He’d never felt smaller, weaker, as the dark Power he’d served most of his life looked across the distance between them. _Traitors,_ Sauron rumbled with growing fury. _All of you._

Yanar huddled in a tighter knot as the Dark Lord’s fury blasted down upon him. What had he done, using sorcery while wearing the accursed pendent? He’d damned all of Ib-Saldís’s Novices! 

Yanar desperately tried to shove the foreign presence from his mind, but time and again, he failed. _No,_ he thought. _No!_

_Know this, traitor. Your **friends,**_ the awful voice stressed with mockery, _will suffer next. They will suffer the worst torments my Mouth can imagine…and then suffer more. But it will be your beloved “commander” who will scream for me longest. Now DIE._

Unimaginable agony burst through his body.

Yanar screamed and screamed and screamed.

OoOoOo

Kyvin dragged Rizhir behind him by the hand clamped around his teammate’s wrist. His ears rang with Yanar’s screams, screams he wouldn’t ever forget.

It was supposed to be him. Kyvin had _told_ Yanar to run, but the stubborn Novice had decided it was up to him to fight the adults. Then just as Yanar had been found, the older teen’s pendant had begun to glow, and Yanar’s sight shield had vanished altogether. 

The other two boys had dumped their Eye pendants and bolted. Kyvin could fight the adults in a losing battle—he’d been in a losing battle since the day he’d been dragged from the nursery—but to fight _HIM?_

He’d run, and he kept running until he’d placed a couple hills between himself and the ambushers. Kyvin didn’t know about Rizhir, but he wasn’t ever touching sorcery again. Never! For a second, he swore he’d felt Sauron’s gaze touch him, too, and it had petrified him so bad he knew he’d be having nightmares. Maybe forever. 

“Kyvin!” Rizhir hissed.

“I know,” he snapped. He didn’t like abandoning their teammate any more than Rizhir did. Kyvin’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “I know. But someone’s got to find that Aragorn and warn him.”

_By the…_ No. He rejected that thought violently. He’d never think that again. 

There was no way to warn their teammates in Mordor. Use sorcery, and Sauron might do to them what he had done—was doing?—to Yanar. Yanar had sacrificed himself for them, and Kyvin would not spit on that gift by wasting it. 

“Our teammates,” Rizhir said, subdued. Pale eyes turned to Kyvin as if asking him to say it’d be alright. 

It wouldn’t, and Kyvin wouldn’t lie. 

Kyvin’s throat clogged with guilt and grief. His teammates were all he had. “I know,” he said again with thick regret. “They’re on their own.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor**  
_

Ciryan’s emala galloped in Ib-Niarvo’s wake, its beak only a step behind her mount’s tail feathers. To either side, hard faced Weapons-Masters paced him, caging him between them. 

Jailers, Ciryan named them. Niarvo had ordered them to protect Ciryan— _Can’t let anything happen to our tool, can we,_ he asked bitterly—but protectors or jailers, the label didn’t matter. Ciryan was stuck. He had no opportunity to fall behind or slip away. 

Behind his face scarf, Ciryan scowled, his mind racing faster than his _emala._ He’d tried to assure himself that the Mouth’s words could not be true. Ib-Saldís wasn’t his sister, and the freak of Sauron was not his sire. This whole trip was a waste of time, and Ib-Saldís would remain safe.

Deep inside, Ciryan knew he only deluded himself. As Kimilzor, the Mouth had never taken chances. He wouldn’t have named Ciryan his get without being sure. 

By the Eye, Ciryan didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be used against his commander—no, his _sister_ —and his teammates. It felt like betrayal, riding along passively, but what else could he do? If Ciryan got himself killed, there was still the Mouth. The Mouth’s blood would work just as well as Ciryan’s to hunt down Ib-Saldís. Ciryan was just more convenient. 

When the Isenmouthe vanished behind them, Niarvo at long last pulled her _emala_ to a halt. The rest of the team quickly did the same. 

“This should be far enough,” Niarvo said with a coy smile tossed over her shoulder. Sultry eyes danced over each male before landing on Ciryan. “Join me, Novice.”

This was it. Ciryan guided his bird to her left, his skin crawling. Nervous sweat beaded his upper lip.

“Can’t have your blood pointing to any half-siblings at the Isenmouthe, can we? Your hand.” Her fingers wagged at him in demand. 

_Warg dung._ Ciryan offered up his hand. 

“If Valkthor killed her,” Niarvo confided with a dark and sultry smile, “I’ll have his manhood. Perhaps a limb or two to keep it company as well.”

Ciryan couldn’t contain his shudder, and Niarvo’s smile deepened. 

Her focus shifted, and her smile faded. With a deft prick, her knife punctured Ciryan’s middle finger. A squeeze coaxed a bead of blood onto the surface, then Niarvo murmured words that brushed against Ciryan’s senses like slick, cloying oil. A sudden and intense desire to bathe flared to life, not that he believed _that_ an option anytime soon. 

As Niarvo’s last syllable faded, a shiver ripped through the drop of blood. Ciryan held his breath as the spell took hold. In a startling _poof,_ the red bead vanished, replaced by a thin, ghostly ribbon. It undulated one way, then another…and stopped. 

“Should it not have at least tracked the Mouth if both Valkthor and Akhora were slain?” asked one of the Weapons-Masters, breaking the silence.

The hairs on Ciryan’s neck jerked upright at the look that floated within Niarvo’s eyes. A blink, and it vanished. “It would,” Niarvo purred, “if I were a dullard unable to prevent such a thing.” 

The skin around the behemoth Weapons-Master’s eyes—the only part of him visible for his face scarf—bleached white. He abased himself without leaving his saddle. 

Ciryan figured the big idiot had just saved his own life.

Niarvo dismissed him, her lean fingers smoothing across her leather reins. “No, I limited the search to females south of us.” A minute frown, a silent gesture, and another ripple went through the crimson ribbon. It instantly undulated northward through the air. 

“So. Either Akhora is dead and our Novice has another sister at the Isenmouthe, or Akhora is north of us,” Niarvo said softly.

“She’s headed to the Isenmouthe,” the other Arcanist of the group proclaimed. Zindor, Ciryan had heard him called. The older man nudged his _emala_ forward until he gained Niarvo’s opposite side. “The rumors must be true.” 

With the back of Niarvo’s head to him, Ciryan couldn’t be sure, but he interpreted her carriage as disbelief. “The Akhora I remember would never risk her neck so brazenly.”

“The Akhora we knew never would have betrayed our people, certainly not for cave-dwelling runts.” Zindor paused. “She entered Mordor. Why else but for the dwarves the Mouth holds prisoner? She knows the penalty for treason,” Zindor said. 

Niarvo suddenly laughed, a low sound full of scorn, and faced forward, bringing her profile once more into Ciryan’s view. “As unbelievable as I find it, the evidence suggests you are correct. How I will delight in hunting the traitor down. So aloof, that hag has been all these years. As if she was too good to sully her hands with any of us. Who would have thought our cold fish harbored a soft spot for dwarves?” 

Ciryan quickly dropped his glare to his lap, furious at Niarvo’s scorn. The commander was no hag. She had better taste than to trust one of _them_ in her bed, was all. 

More briskly, Niarvo commanded, “Zindor, take one of the others. See if you can’t find Valkthor…or what’s left of him. If it is Akhora we track, he’s dead. I want confirmation one way or the other.” Another sultry smile came Ciryan’s way, and he hastily rearranged his face into a blank slate. “If by some miracle Valkthor lives, this Novice’s blood will guide you.”

It was the first time Ciryan realized his parentage linked him to Valkthor, too. He liked that as much as he liked being related to the Mouth: not at all.

Zindor saluted, fist to his heart. While Niarvo repeated her spell—Ciryan assumed this time it would be looking for males—Zindor spun his mount about and signaled to one of the Weapons. 

“Ah, look. Valkthor lives,” Niarvo cooed at the spell’s completion. “The spell won’t last for long,” she cautioned.

“Long enough to give me a direction,” Zindor said.

Niarvo batted eyes at the other Arcanist. “Be a dear and drag Valkthor back to the Isenmouthe for me, will you, Zindor?”

“By your command,” the Arcanist said, saluting. Both Arcanist and designated Weapon spurred their _emala_ south after the second ribbon of red, keeping to the Morrâd.

The rest of Niarvo’s chosen team retraced their steps north, the first ribbon leading them onward. When the small guide faded, another drop of Ciryan’s blood replaced it. 

Ciryan had never felt more helpless. Ciryan, his teammates and his…sister, they were all in big, big trouble.

He hoped Saldís was as good as he thought, because everything depended on her now. Ib-Saldís had to successfully evade or overcome a team of seven trained killers along with Ib-Niarvo herself. 

Even Ar-Cavendor would have trouble doing that. 

Ciryan focused on preparing himself. If it came down to a fight, he’d do all he could to aid his commander. Better to die fighting than…

A distant, high pitched squeal like groaning metal rumbled loud enough that it drowned out every other sound. _What is that?_ Ciryan’s skin pebbled and an unsettled feeling slithered around his middle. Whatever it was, he bet it wasn’t good.

Ib-Niarvo’s hand flew into the air, and the party skidded to a halt. The crimson thread they’d been following was forgotten. Niarvo stood in her stirrups, intent. Her lithe body vibrated with tension. 

_The Eye,_ Ciryan realized. The source of that creepy noise was the ball of flames atop Barad-Dur. It had been a pupil wreathed in flames from the first time Ciryan had seen it, but now, the fires comprising its body were a tempest, white hot and vibrating with fury. Its gaze no longer surveyed the northwestern horizon but beamed directly at the Isenmouthe. 

Something had happened. Something had infuriated the Dark Lord, and whatever its source, it was in the Black Númenórean outpost itself. 

_Oh no._ His teammates? 

“Back to the Isenmouthe,” Niarvo said, her voice a lash. “Fly!”

OoOoOo

Thannor sped north, attention divided between sweeping the vista in search of enemies and reading the story written in tracks upon the baked earth. What he read underfoot both chilled and infuriated the Ranger. Only now did Finnin’s mumbled words make sense.

Valkthor had deceived Saldís into attacking the dwarf she loved. A more obscene trick, Thannor couldn’t imagine. 

The Ranger’s teeth ground together hard enough to cause pain. _She believes Finnin dead by her own hand._ Thannor knew what such a deception would do to him. What would it do to someone already teetering on the edges of sanity? 

He did not delude himself with wishful thinking. That schism in his cousin was neither healthy nor reassuring. Saldís had been badly damaged by her past. He understood that. He sympathized, even. It didn’t change the fact that Thannor’s cousin was one dangerous woman. What would such a sick game do to one like her? 

The question haunted him.

A movement in the darkness, the faintest outline of two figures. Thannor reacted instinctively, squatting low to make himself small. _Not Saldis and Valkthor._ The shapes were too stocky and short. _Orcs,_ he decided.

Thannor crawled closer, eyes and ears straining. Valkthor and Saldís’s tracks led right towards the two. His right hand wrapped around the hilt of one of his short blades. There was no hope for it. He had to risk drawing nearer. If the two orcs had Saldís, they wouldn’t for long. 

Thannor’s progress slowed the closer he drew…until one orc bent down to scoop an object off the ground. It was as that one twirled the slender object in his hands that Thannor knew. That was no orc. It was Nori, which meant the other was Dori.

_Thank the Valar._ Thannor abandoned stealth and rushed to them. 

Both dwarves spun around with weapons raised, only to relax when Thannor tugged his head scarf free. “Master Nori, Master Dori. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you.”

Dori bobbed his chin jerkily behind his orcish helm. Nori silently displayed the objects he’d picked up. At sight of Saldís’s beloved flute and pendant, a horrible intuition flared. 

_No,_ Thannor thought. _Not this._ For his poor cousin, for Bifur and Bofur and Berenor…for all of the Novices she’d yet to save, this could not be happening.

With prickles racing through him, Thannor obeyed when Nori directed Thannor’s attention to the ground a couple yards away. His heart plummeted into his stomach. 

_Lady Nienna have mercy._

“Valkthor,” Thannor murmured, for it was the Arcanist. The tracks Thannor had followed did not lie. 

Had Thannor met the Arcanist before, it would little avail him in identifying the man now. A hiss escaped through Thannor’s lips when he realized Valkthor clung to life. It was a fight the Arcanist was destined to lose. Even had Lord Elrond been present and of a merciful mind, there would be no healing Valkthor’s mangled body. 

Thannor took one step closer. Blood was strewn everywhere. The man’s eyes had been gouged out, his nose sliced from his face, and his innards had been yanked from his abdomen. Flies swarmed over the bloody mess, denying Thannor clear identification of just what organs they were, and Thannor thanked Eru for that small mercy. This memory would be gruesome enough without the details. 

_Eru._ Such rage Saldís must have felt to do this. The damage was beastly yet cannily cruel.

Thannor’s attention returned to the dwarves. Nori had handed Saldís’s flute and pendant to Dori, and second sight of them hit home like an exclamation mark. Saldís would never have abandoned those possessions. Not willingly.

Akhora, it seemed, would and had. They were no longer dealing with Thannor’s brave and penitent cousin. 

It was a punch in the gut. Given the deception played this day, he supposed it was inevitable that that one had risen to the forefront. The fool Arcanist had pulled on the lion’s tale…and she had turned on him with more violence than Valkthor could have dreamed. 

Thannor prowled to stand over the gasping man. Only when his boots framed the man’s head did the blind man realize he had company. “You,” Thannor said softly, “should never have played such a game. Saldís would have given you a clean death, but thanks to you, it isn’t Saldís we’re dealing with anymore, is it?”

The man’s lips parted, but only blood bubbles emerged. Still, there was no trouble reading the man’s lips. _Kill me_ , the wretch pleaded.

“Oh, no,” Thannor said softly. He knelt so that he could ensure the man heard his every word. “You do not escape so lightly. If you wish a clean death, there is sufficient blood here for an _Arcanist_ to give it to himself. I won’t lift a finger to ease your misery. With your charade, you may have ensured my cousin’s destruction, and with her my _son’s._ No. Let the flies feast on you if you’ve not the courage to end it yourself.”

Thannor rose to his feet. Behind him, Nori’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade. “Charade?” A tilt of the head brought the two Ri brothers into view, and the way both of them stared at Thannor said they’d heard more than he’d said. 

Nori yanked his helmet off his head, a steely anger in his eyes. “What charade?”

Regret touched the Ranger. Despite all the Company’s attempts, they’d failed Saldís, and in doing so, they might have lost everything. “This warg spawn,” he said, indicating the gasping Arcanist with a wave of one hand, “thought it would be grand fun to play with Saldís and Finnin.” 

Both dwarves stiffened until they resembled the stone they’d been hewn from. 

Thannor ran one hand down his face. It felt the weight of the world settled on his shoulders, and that, he acknowledged, wasn’t far from the truth. “Using his magics, Valkthor created an illusion. He tricked Saldís into believing Finnin was he.” He leveled a bleak look upon his friends. “She gutted him. Finnin survived…” _For now,_ his tone implied. “…but Valkthor used his sorcery to fool her a second time. She believes Finnin dead by her hands.”

Nori rocked as if from a blow, a low moan escaping him. Horror shone from his eyes.

“He’s freed that Akhora, hasn’t he?” Dori said in a voice robbed of life. 

“Yes,” Thannor said with a helpless lift of one hand. “Anuon tends to Finnin, but without a refuge from which to heal, Finnin won’t be with us long.”

Nori erupted into coarse, vicious cursing in his own tongue—Thannor didn’t need an interpreter to understand the sentiment—but it was Dori who shocked him. Sweet, mild, genteel Dori roared in fury and grief, charged Valkthor, and rammed Bifur’s boar spear right through the man’s heart. 

After wrenching it free, the elder of the Ris turned to the two of them, the spear haft held tight in his right hand. Saldís’s flute and pendant were clenched in his left. “Can you track her, Thannor?” he asked, the words almost garbled into incomprehensibility by the growl in his voice. 

Thannor eyed the dwarf carefully. “I’d intended to.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Dori’s head whipped to his brother. “Go, _Nadadith._ You protect our niece’s mate.” (Little brother)

Nori straightened. “I’m going with you.”

“Not this time,” Dori denied, the growl only intensifying. _“I_ permitted Ori to go, fool that I am. _I_ let myself be swayed into letting our Saldís come here, and don’t you dare try to tell me Bifur wouldn’t have forbidden it. Nay, I am going after our niece. This time, it’s you who will be staying behind, and I’ll not hear another word on it.”

“This is none o’ your doing, Dori,” Nori tried.

For a second, Thannor believed Dori’s fist might fly. Instead, his chin tucked ominously, and he stepped into Nori’s space until their chests touched. _“Don’t_ you be telling me it’s not my fault. I let her come. _Here,_ Nori. Mordor! By Mahal, I should have locked her away—safe, ye hear?—in our Halls! Just as…as I let Ori,” Thannor’s throat tightened as the dwarf’s voice turned broken. “Just like Ori…”

“Nay,” Nori said hoarsely. “If any blame lies at your feet, then I carry it, too. But _Nadad?_ Finnin needs ya. We both know I’m useless with healing.” 

When Dori looked ready to object, Nori took hold of his brother’s shoulders. “You’re the strong one. If the lad needs moving, you’re the best one to carry him.”

Dori deflated. At last, a nod came. “Fine. But you bring her back, Nori.” Then including Thannor in his gaze, the dwarf corrected, “Both of you. I don’t care if it’s Akhora who’s running around out there. You bring her back.”

Thannor held Dori’s gaze steadily even as Nori bristled with insult, saying, “As if it needed saying.”

“You have my word,” Thannor promised. No matter how perilous the attempt was sure to be, Saldís had earned it. But by the Valar, Thannor had no idea how he’d manage that as well as saving his son and the other dwarves. 

Dori sniffled and stood taller. “Tell me where to find Finnin and Anuon.”

A skin-crawling noise interrupted them, one which filled Mordor from horizon to horizon. Thannor’s head jerked up and his eyes widened as the Eye’s orange flames screamed to a terrible white. It’s glare beamed down somewhere near the Isenmouthe. 

“That,” Nori commented, “does not look like a happy Eye.”

“No, Master Dwarf,” Thannor replied absently. “It does not.”

_Eru._ What was happening now?

And what would it mean for Thannor’s loved ones?

OoOoOo

_  
**Ost Egla, Mordor**  
_

Bofur’s bruised and swollen face painfully lifted at the terrible sound. Mahal, what next? 

Chained to one of the stone pillars outside Ost Egla, he was, the better to lure his niece into attempting a rescue—his wee poor niece who was out there somewhere a-hurting from the foul deception that wretch Valkthor had served her. Bifur had been slow to tell Bofur the full o’ things, but Bofur was his friend as well as cousin. He’d not left off pestering until he’d dragged it all from his anguished kinsman. 

Refusing to be used against her, too, Bofur had fought his jailers every step of the way, not that it had done a blessed bit o’ good. Nay, yon Black Númenóreans had pinned him here, a fine bit of bait, and Bofur was sick to know it. He’d been despondent, castigating himself for failing to escape Pelargir before that Valkthor had arrived, until that sound had interrupted him.

_‘Tis the Eye,_ he realized as a blinding white light—naught like pure sunlight but somehow a putrid, flesh-curdling imitation—lit upon the streets of the Black Númenórean settlement. 

Now what was that about?

“So,” came the Mouth’s voice from behind Bofur, startling him. “We have traitors.”

Chills broke out upon the toymaker’s flesh, for the Mouth’s ghastly tone boded ill for someone. _Not Saldís. Don’t let it be our lass._

The Mouth stepped into view. A crook of one finger summoned a handful of Black Númenóreans to the Mouth’s side. The Mouth drew a black blade Bofur had not seen before—and by Durin, he was wishing he was not seeing it now. ‘Twas wrong, that blade, for it absorbed the light around it and glowed blackly. “She will be near,” the Mouth crooned before striding down the steps to the road that led to the Isenmouthe. “The brats look to her.”

_She?_ Bofur roared wordlessly, struggling with his bonds. Nay! Not their Saldís! 

The Mouth never spared him a second glance.

OoOoOo

_  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  
_

Alhez had been keeping watch outside, trying to appear busy about some errand so as no one would snag him to actually give him one, when the grating noise thundered in his ears. A split second later, an awful light lit up the street like daytime, only to Alhez’s senses, there was nothing good about this light. It burned with hatred, and his skin shuddered on contact.

People spilled out into the streets, armed and poised for action. What happened next, Alhez thought, probably shocked them all, from Ar-Cavendor to the traitorous Ilhia. Every Eye pendant in the area began to glow like miniature beacons, and each Arcanist stiffened until they looked like lamp posts. 

In eerie unison, the Arcanists intoned, “The Novices have betrayed us.”

That was it for Alhez. Frantically signaling his teammates, Alhez turned and ran.


	59. I've got my Eye on You

_**North Ithilien, Gondor** _

Mablung loped low to the ground, bow in hand and ears attuned to every noise that disrupted the morning’s quiet. He and his team of scouts, all of them Rangers of Ithilien, had raced north after discovering an ambush prepared for the Host by Southrons. 

The Rangers had to be certain the ambush was all the enemy had planned. Mablung had been close to labeling their mission finished when a baffling rumble, like that of dozens of racing feet, had added itself to nature’s chorus. 

_Those are no deer._ Nor were they horses or wargs. 

A searching glance had flowed among the Rangers. They’d labored to defend their lands side-by-side for so long that they needed no words.

 _Do you recognize it?_ each queried of the others with lifted brows. 

_No,_ came the unanimous answer via small shakes of the head. 

Whatever the animals creating the disturbance might be, they were light on their feet, swift, and—as the Rangers chased them down in search of answers—squawked. _They are avian,_ Mablung noted with dismay. He well remembered the _emala_ the Novices seeking Aragorn had ridden.

The rumble abruptly stopped some handful of minutes later, further confirming Mablung’s suspicions. _Foreign animals rush through our lands…and halt suddenly?_ These were no wild animals. 

So. There was more to Sauron’s plan than an ambush of Southrons. 

With a low whistle and wave of an arm, Mablung directed his Rangers to close in on the birds’ position. Deep in his gut, he had little doubt about what he would find. Part, if not all, of Sauron’s secret army of Black Númenóreans was on the move. The question became how many…and what to do about them. Had Sauron sent them forth to destroy the Heir of Elendil and his Host? 

A flash of fiery light, a moan of wind. Mablung dropped, eyes wide to witness a funnel of pure fire shoot from the heavens, its target not far from the Rangers’ position. A shout of agony answered the attack and sent prickles down the Ranger’s spine.

The Rangers crawled closer, spreading out and hiding in the knee-high grasses. Mablung slithered up a low rise, Anborn on his right and Damrod on his left. Upon cresting the hill, the three went absolutely still. 

As he’d feared, it was them. Black Númenóreans—fewer of them than Mablung could have hoped—struggled to contain their panicking _emala_ while also battling…who? Spells and arrows flew, but Mablung did not see who harassed them. 

He noted a handful of Black Númenóreans incapacitated by illness, and three others lay unmoving on the ground—slain, one would presume—but the rest sought their enemy with furious if blind intensity. It made no sense…until a blast of dust revealed the blurred outlines of three men. 

By the Valar. The Arcanists could render themselves _invisible?_ Had any of the Novices thought to warn Aragorn? 

Beetles burst from the ground and swarmed in all directions. A tall boy with chin-length brunette hair popped into view, a bright object dangling from his neck. Its light intensified as the boy abruptly blanched, his face twisting from resolved to horrified. A scream escaped him, one equal parts terror and torment.

 _He is the one they sought._ This young man was the Black Númenóreans’ enemy. 

Almost on cue, movement out of the corner of his eye spun Mablung about. Two other boys ran from the scene as fast as they could. None of the Black Númenóreans spotted the runners. Their focus was on the teen collapsing to the ground as he continued to scream. 

Chills raced up Mablung’s spine as he recognized the device floating above the boy’s head for what it was: an Eye pendant. This boy, then, was a Novice, and his overlord was punishing him across a distance that shocked Mablung. Truly, Sauron’s reach was great to find and harm the Novice here. 

“It’s torturing him,” Anborn hissed. Dark eyes flew to Mablung, demanding permission to act. 

“He must be one of that Saldís’s,” Damrod muttered from Mablung’s opposite side. 

“Agreed,” Mablung said. “Damrod, Anborn, round up the other two. Above all else you must ensure they reach Aragorn. Go!” 

He did not wait for them to depart. The screaming teen was running out of time. 

_You cannot have him,_ Mablung swore. Why the three Novices had acted so precipitously, turning against their oppressors when the numbers didn’t favor them, he couldn’t guess, but Mablung would not sit idly by and watch the youths die for their mistake. Since he’d first heard of Caeldor and the breeding program that had been instituted there, Mablung had never lost sight of one thing: many of those children had been sired off of Mablung’s own kinswomen—aunts, sisters. The Novices were sons and daughters of Ithilien. 

Mablung jumped to his feet, arrow notched, drawn, and fired before any of the Black Númenóreans spotted him. His Rangers, seventeen with Damrod and Anborn’s absence, were but a blink behind. 

Black Númenóreans fell. The Rangers’ first volley slayed seven on the spot. More suffered injuries and soon followed. 

In the next instant, the Black Númenóreans returned fire. A Ranger went down, an arrow through his throat. A second followed with a blue glow swallowing his head, and a fireball mowed down four or five more of Mablung’s men. 

“For Gondor!” Mablung shouted. He drew his sword and charged to meet the closest of the Black Númenóreans. Their swords clashed, but to Mablung’s surprise, the man’s attacks were weak and uncoordinated. His foe moaned, plainly in some distress for he half folded over. 

Mablung wasted no time with questions. He thanked Eru for that bit of fortune and dispatched the fellow before he recovered from his ailment. 

Wind roared. Mablung’s head whipped around in time to witness four Rangers positioned along the Black Númenóreans’ west flank fly backwards, catapulted off their feet. A scan located the source: a female with an Eye pendant proudly displayed on her chest. Mablung turned to face her, but another Ranger’s hurled dagger pierced the witch’s black heart first. 

Within another minute, it was over. The few Black Númenóreans still alive were utterly incapacitated by whatever illness had struck them. Mablung grimly considered that if not for the strange malady, he and his men would have died this day. Aragorn would have ridden into a Black Númenórean trap. 

“Finish them,” Mablung commanded before he jogged across the body-strewn field to the fallen teenager. Gandir, the scouting team’s young healer, had already reached the boy’s side. 

“Help me,” Gandir greeted Mablung with in a harried voice. 

Mablung dropped beside him. “What—?”

“The pendant,” Gandir growled. “It’s white hot. Grab the chain. Curse Sauron, it’s almost burned through to his artery.”

Mablung hastily palmed handfuls of his cloak for protection.

“Ready?” Gandir asked.

“Go.” They grabbed the accursed thing. 

The pendant made short work of Mablung’s cloak, and Gandir’s hiss told him the healer’s leather gloves fared no better. Mablung gritted his teeth and refused to loose the wicked thing. Up and up the Rangers carefully drew the burning necklace until chain and pendant both cleared the boy’s head. In unison, they tossed the blighted object away.

Gandir hurried to tend the teen’s wounds. Besides the burn marks circling the boy’s neck, his arm was gouged badly. How, Mablung wanted to know, had that come to be? 

“It’s bad,” the healer said, his focus upon the boy’s neck and face. “I’ll not lie.” Pale eyes darted up Mablung. “With it being Sauron, I fear his physical injuries are the least of his troubles.”

 _Black Breath._ Neither Ranger needed to say it. That malady was common among those who brushed with the Nine. How much worse a direct confrontation with the Dark Lord himself? 

_Lady Nienna be merciful._

“Do what you can for him,” Mablung said, rising to his feet. “As soon as he’s ready for travel, we fly to Aragorn.”

Ten minutes later, the surviving Rangers were seated on _emala_ stolen from enemies no longer able to protest. They raced south, three teenagers under their protection. 

Mablung cursed the entire way, his heart full of anguish and outrage. The Dark Lord knew Novices had betrayed him. By Kyvin’s account, a full ninety-one of the turncoat Novices remained within Mordor’s bounds. What horrible fate would they meet if some miracle did not spare them?

There was not a thing Mablung could do to protect the little ones…and it slayed him to know it.

OoOoOo

__  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  


_Warg spit!_

Akhora flattened herself to the iron rooftop the instant the streets flooded with brilliant light, her frame squeezed beneath the army of spikes jutting from its surface. One moment, her path had been sufficiently shadowed to hide her from view, the next she’d been on bright display. If any had happened to glance up…

By Kimilzor’s blackened heart, what _was_ this? Impatience pulled her lips back from her teeth in a snarl. She shook with the need to spill more blood. The fifteen kills so far were not nearly enough to quench her thirst, and she resented any delay. By the Pit, she howled to wrap her fingers around Kimilzor’s throat. Where was that piece of warg dung?

The Dark Lord’s Eye blazed like a white and snapping inferno. Though miles separated them, her ears detected the roaring sound of it, much like squealing metal. Fury, she interpreted it as, and every ounce of it was bent upon the Isenmouthe’s streets. Had Sauron sensed a number of his prized pets dying one by one? 

Akhora rubbed fingers sticky with blood, considering the possibility. His anger moved her not at all. She hated him. She hated _them_ and all of Arda, and she gave less thought to consequences the longer her silent and undiscovered rampage continued. This was power—taking life when and how _she_ chose, repaying those who had dared touch her, dared slight her. Vengeance was succulent sweet, and Akhora intended to continue imbibing this new and heady cocktail for a long time to come.

Akhora sneered at the Eye from the roof’s lip. _Find me if you can,_ she taunted. _Take too long, and I’ll have crippled your precious army. Me. A **mortal,** you mistake of Morgoth._

How laughable if she succeeded. Mighty Sauron, the dread Dark Lord himself, undone by one woman.

Doors slammed open. The streets filled with a black-clad mass of Black Númenóreans. Every scarfed head panned towards Barad-Dur, and a low rumble of uneasy mutters arose. 

Arcanists. Weapons. So great they believed themselves. So superior, yet not one spied her. Their overlord’s tantrum ensured it. 

Akhora’s body shook with the strength of her hatred. They feared their overlord? What could _he_ do? What had he ever done? No, it was her they should fear, and by the Pit, she’d teach them that truth before she was finished.

Her skin pebbled in dark anticipation. _Be happy,_ she told her Saldís-self as her weaker half clamored for release. _Your runt lover and beloved “Adâd” will be very, very well avenged this day._ Akhora slipped her blowpipe free, then poured out a large pile of poisoned darts. 

She loaded the weapon and lifted it to her lips…only to pause when pinpoints of light began to appear on a number of bodies below. What could…? 

_The Eye pendants,_ she breathed with dawning disbelief and delight. Wicked mirth drew chuckles from her. Little did Sauron know it, but his sudden trick acted like beacons to guide her darts. Thanks to the Dark Lord, she knew exactly where to direct her attacks for maximum effect. 

Snickering, she puffed sharply through the tube, sending the first dart on its way. How many Arcanists, she wondered, could she execute before her enemies realized they were under assault?

“The Novices have betrayed us,” Arcanists of all ages said in a unanimous monotone, drawing another snort from her. _Puff._ Out flew her second dart. A second body stiffened before falling lifeless to the street. 

_Novices?_ she heard that pitiful Saldís gasp. The milksop’s anger dimmed for a split-second, replaced by horror. Then Saldís’s anger fired all the hotter. _Kill them,_ that part of her demanded. _Don’t let them touch my Novices!_

The sentimental fool. The—

Akhora’s scathing indictment faltered, and her jaw hardened. For a second, Akhora’s grip—on _her own body,_ by the Eye—turned tenuous. The chains keeping Saldís caged slipped. 

_No. I won’t have it,_ Akhora snarled. Marshalling all of her iron will, she punched down that other half with brutal and punishing strength. Would that weakling aberration never die? _You waste time they do not have,_ she hissed. _Every second you fight me is a second I could have spent killing our enemies!_

Saldís went very, very still. Oh, the fool was furious—Akhora would scorn her more if she wasn’t—but she did nothing to argue for possession of their body. 

Good. Once again secure in her dominance, Akhora lifted her blow pipe, her hands trembling with all the fury and loathing she could not contain. _I hate you,_ she spat at that runt-loving Saldís. _Lucky for you, I hate them more._

Akhora aimed at her next victim. To keep Saldís pacified, Akhora would spare the rug rats. Them, she had no argument with.

OoOoOo

“The Novices have betrayed us.”

Chills skated down Erynor’s spine both from the eerie way every Arcanist on the street intoned the words and the message itself. How had Sauron…?

Again with that queer unity, heads panned until hundreds of unblinking Arcanist eyes stared at Erynor framed in the doorway to the Novices’ barracks. Five thousand troops, Yahzin had told him. Only at that moment did Erynor realize how terrifying those numbers were. Yes, there were thousands of Weapons…but there were literally hundreds of sorcerers. 

Erynor grabbed fistfuls of fabric, any scrap of clothing he could reach on the half dozen Novices who had been drawn outside by curiosity when light had flooded the street. Most of them were already bolting towards the door, but Erynor snatched at any in reach and threw them through the open doorway. His heart pounded all the while that sheltering in the barracks would do no good with _sorcerers_ preparing to unleash on them. 

Banging sounded from within the barracks—what it was, he didn’t know. Erynor’s focus locked upon the many Novices yet outside beyond his reach, those who had been serving as errand boys and girls for their Lords’ pleasure, and his throat tightened. _Oh Eru._ He had to save them. He had to find some way to…

A sphere of molten fire flamed into existence, hovering between Erynor and the army of Black Númenóreans. A slender, diminutive Arcanist stepped forward. It wasn’t far, only one step, but it drew his eye. 

Ar-Lhussan, Erynor identified at once. There was no need to guess. According to Saldís, Lhussan was the sole albino among the Black Númenóreans and one of the shortest women, too. 

Yes, Lord Fuinur was the one controlling the fireball. No, Erynor corrected himself, _growing_ it. What had started as the size of a bucket was now a boulder. 

A Novice managed to break free of the Black Númenórean forces. With pale face, wide eyes and dark hair streaming behind her, the girl darted towards Erynor with frantically pumping arms—Ilhia, he realized with shock. Whether the girl wished it or not, she was one of Saldís’s now. Her own people would murder her if they could.

Lhussan’s unnerving pink eyes narrowed venomously on Ilhia’s back, and the huge ball of fire…flew. Time seemed to slow as the deadly orb grew larger in Erynor’s sight. 

_Oh no._

Everything happened at once. Ilhia’s hand slapped into Erynor’s outstretched palm. Behind her, Ar-Lhussan’s body gave a strange jerk. Erynor heaved Ilhia off her feet. _Please,_ he prayed to any Power who might listen. _Please._ Foam spewed from between Lhussan’s lips as Ilhia’s feet cleared Erynor’s shoulder. Lhussan crashed to her knees, her pink eyes draining of life. 

What…?

The approaching fireball blotted the street from view. Erynor’s skin registered incredible heat. His skull rang with a wordless shout. He was going to die.

Time sped up as a slender body rammed into Erynor’s gut, driving him into the barracks and away from the door. He heard the door slam shut a fraction of a second before the barracks’ walls shuddered with a booming impact. A big object sailed past Erynor— _What was that?_ —and out of the corner of his eye, he saw flames belch after it. Heat scorched his skin.

 _The…door?_ Had it been blown from its hinges?

Kids shouted, but in the din, Erynor understood none of their words. A second and third impact swiftly rocked the building, and Erynor hastily extricated himself from Yahzin—he was going to have words with Berenor’s new sister about risking her neck like that—and shook his head free from the vestiges of shock.

Gylmal had Novices racing to block windows and the mangled and door-less entrance with their cots. A desperate bid for time, Erynor knew, but to stay here was to die. This place was a trap they had to escape. 

Shouts arose outside, and the distinctive clang of blades clashing. How many of Saldís’s charges were out there? Images flashed through Erynor’s mind of teenagers slain, their bodies falling lifeless to the street. His eyes pricked with absolute and helpless frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen! The Black Company had come to _save_ Caeldor’s children, not lead them to the slaughter!

Confound it, there was not a thing Erynor could do to aid the Novices outside, and it killed a piece of his soul to know it. They were _kids,_ curse Sauron to the deepest reaches of the Pit. They should not have even been here! 

_Focus, Erynor,_ he could hear Berenor bark impatiently. By the Valar, he wished his brother was beside him. 

“Is there another way out?” Erynor tossed at Gylmal as he threw his own efforts into smashing cots across the smoldering maw where once a door had stood. Another massive something rocked the barracks, and chunks of masonry crumbled from one corner, exposing ceiling and a part of the second story to the Eye’s glare. 

_By the Valar. They’ll bring this place down around our ears._

“Is there any other way out?” he repeated sharply. All the while, Erynor’s ears continued to note every little noise that indicated the Novices outside continued to battle. That any lived to fight on was a miracle. _Run,_ he willed them. _Don’t let them get you. **Run!**_

The loud wailing of wind and fire abruptly stopped. “Hold!” a muffled voice screeched from the other side of the door. “Leave them! We’ll round them up later. It’s her we want. The Eye demands we take her alive!”

Her? 

_No time._ Whatever transpired outside, Erynor would not let the sudden lull go wasted. He and the Novices had to move, and they had to move fast. 

“Gylmal!” he hissed, and the Novice jumped. When Gylmal’s eyes tore from the door with difficulty, too much white framed his irises. Gylmal was big for his age and a solid fighter. Erynor cursed himself for forgetting even momentarily that the boy’s grown appearance lied. The kid was only fourteen. 

“Gylmal?” Mazir asked, stepping to the boy’s side.

Gylmal scrunched his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and straightened. Flipping his long black braid over his shoulder, he again met Erynor’s gaze, and this time, Gylmal was as steady as a rock. “Windows,” he said. “Third story.” He swallowed. “We try the roofs.” 

_And hope they don’t get picked off one by one,_ Erynor thought grimly. “Go,” Erynor growled. “While they are distracted. Grab your gear and get your tails out of here. That’s an order. Find Calenor. With any luck, he’ll have a place to hole up.”

Gylmal nodded sharply. With a low, “You heard him. Move,” the teen hustled the others in a loud procession up the barracks stairs. 

The makeshift cot-barricade began to move. Orders outside notwithstanding, someone persisted in his or her attempt to penetrate the barracks’ defenses. More shouts sounded on the streets. To Erynor it sounded like hundreds of boots gave chase after whoever it was the Númenóreans now hunted... 

...all but the few souls whose fingers slid around Erynor’s cots for purchase. More strength came to bear, forcing the barrier back no matter how hard Erynor resisted. He was losing, the wall of cots scraping backwards inch by inch. _“Raich!”_ he spat. (Curses!) He had to hold them. He had to give Gylmal and the others time. 

_Berenor, I’m sorry._ It looked like neither of them would be returning from this mission.

A body materialized at Erynor’s side, and a scimitar jabbed out the door. A muffled cry said Yahzin’s thrust scored a hit. 

“Yahzin!” he hissed. His voice turned harsh, “You listen to me, Baby Mule. You get your fanny up those stairs.”

Her chin lifted— _mulishly,_ Erynor labeled it, and he ground his teeth in frustration. “What about you?” she demanded while slicing at any fingers daring to grab hold of the cots again. They were hastily retracted, but then an enemy blade did some jabbing of its own. 

Erynor and Yahzin both recoiled only to slam against the cots when they began to teeter apart. Truly? They couldn’t hold together thirty accursed seconds longer?

 _One or two of Finnur’s birds would be nice right about now,_ he thought with a touch of hysteria.

Yahzin fiddled with an object out of his sight. 

“I mean it, Baby Mule,” he tried.

She bared her teeth at him. By Eru, if they lived through this, he’d wring her neck! 

“Berenor,” she said shortly. “This is our chance.”

What?

She filled her mouth with…was that ale? Was this really the time to be imbibing? 

On second thought, he considered snatching a gulp for himself, but before he could do more than consider the idea, the deceptively innocent-looking miss picked up a candle and to Erynor’s disbelief, she slithered on her belly to the crack in the barricade. The instant she was in position, Yahzin tilted her neck, placed the candle inches before her lips…and sprayed her foes. 

Alcohol ignited midway to its target. A man screamed. A woman cursed. Erynor’s Baby Terror then calmly picked up her blowpipe and shot one, two, three darts through the crack. 

Rolling to her feet, the unnerving teen cocked her brow and offered Erynor a challenging stare. “I’m getting my brother. Are you coming or not?”

OoOoOo

Ar-Lhussan jerked, and Akhora purred evilly. She’d already dispatched three commanders, and still the Black Númenóreans thought the Novices were behind all their losses.

The kids had proved useful. Akhora didn’t deny that, though the weakling Saldís roared with every Novice death that she witnessed. Why, the fool almost foamed at the mouth as badly as poisoned Lhussan in her impotent fury. The blathering idiot was nigh insensible in her rage, her hatred and anger eclipsing even Akhora’s. 

So quickly the silly runt-lover forgot a basic truth: to care for others was to court pain. Saldís should never have concerned herself with the brats. Use them, yes. But care? 

It appalled her, then, when somehow Akhora found herself obeying the wretch’s desires, hunting down Weapons and Arcanists attacking the Novices with her darts and ensuring a number of the teens slipped down side streets with their lives intact. 

By the Pit! Akhora wanted the Lords. She wanted Cavendor and Kimilzor, may he rot. What did she care about kids? Akhora snapped and snarled at her Saldís-self, but try as she might, her blowpipe persisted in chasing after any who threatened the Novices.

That runt-lover was controlling her. _Her!_ Bleeding commands by sheer force of will that her body obeyed. And by Sauron’s precious Ring, Akhora could not halt it!

Not until chance brought Cavendor into her sights. Not until Saldís’s mind flared with murderous intent. Kill him, and the entire Black Númenórean force would be left in disarray, Akhora heard Saldís think. The thought had no sooner been birthed than Akhora found herself doing what both halves of her hungered to do.

She darted the stony-faced Weapon in the chin. So he’d know. Before he died, he’d know exactly what had killed him. For once, a measure of emotion escaped through the cracks in his composure. Shock, she read. Somehow, as his body convulsed and his lips flecked with foam, his eyes lifted to her.

She was the last thing he saw, and Akhora relished in the knowledge. 

A rumbling filled the air. The roof beneath her quaked with the force of it. Akhora’s gaze snapped to Barad-Dur’s distant outline, knowing it to be the source. _Felt that, didn’t you?_

The Eye snapped to her. Not the Isenmouthe, not her general location. Garish, malevolent light condensed until only the few feet around her remained illuminated. From below, she distantly heard a voice shout to take her alive. 

_Alive? Oh, that’s rich._ The Dark Lord had hamstrung his army with those orders. Akhora’s enemies were constrained. She…wasn’t.

Akhora paused to smirk into the Eye’s glare, knowing he saw it, then she leaped away from the roof’s edge and sprinted between spikes, the Eye pursuing her every move. When she reached the opposite edge, she swung over the lip, hanging off one spike. With one hand, she blew Sauron a kiss.

She let go, dropping into the shadows of the street behind.

OoOoOo

Thannor skidded to a halt, his eyes locked upon the Isenmouthe. For a split-second, the Eye’s narrowed light had illuminated a slender, black-clad form upon a rooftop, leaving…her?…lit up like a beacon and visible from miles away.

 _A woman._ Thannor caught only glimpses as she weaved among the spikes crowding the roof, but with each sight, his certainty grew. That was no youth or man. Sauron’s target was a female, and Thannor’s heart filled with instant fear. Was it Akhora?

The Ranger’s arm shot out to bar Nori. The dwarf huffed and puffed to a stop by his side. “Why…are we…halting?”

 _Was_ it Akhora? 

His heart answered, _Who else would beard Sauron while in the Dark Lord’s lands?_

Who else, indeed. Thannor’s right hand grasped the hilt of one scimitar with painful intensity, and a twitch jerked the skin of his cheek. Thannor’s cousin had come this way—he’d tracked the warg she’d commandeered—and he had little doubt about her destination. She’d made a beeline for the Isenmouthe. 

Why she’d come here, what she’d hoped to accomplish, Thannor could only speculate—that and pray that somehow Saldís had regained control. Perhaps Saldís ruled, a Saldís made reckless in her grief. Believing Finnin dead, would she not do all in her power to reach Bifur? 

Words of denial clogged in his throat as the slim woman dropped from Thannor’s sight, and Sauron’s. Her intent, he assumed. In her absence, the beam of the Eye’s gaze once again broadened.

“Thannor?” Nori snapped impatiently. “You do remember we are in Mordor? I’m not sure this is the time to be sight-seeing.”

“Master Nori, we must…” Thannor began. He took one step forward, intending to return to his ground-eating lope, but then more movement drew his attention. 

From half a dozen spots, people crept from the shadows, their very postures screaming fear. They appeared upon the town’s walls—walls which while insignificant when measured next to the Isenmouthe itself were still over a story tall in their own right. Others scrambled from windows, their body language vibrating with urgency. Singly and in small groups, they appeared, and Thannor grew cold to realize who they must be. They were the Novices.

Why would they flee after rejoining their people? What in Eru’s name had happened?

“Novices,” he told Nori. “They flee the Isenmouthe as if Sauron himself was after them.”

Nori’s gaze whipped up to him and then back to the Isenmouthe. From the low growl of frustration the dwarf made, Thannor deduced his friend saw naught of what occurred. 

Nori hadn’t seen Akhora, either, he realized with heavy heart. Nori had no idea the Dark Lord was hunting the woman they’d both hoped to save.

Another shape emerged from the west, a Black Númenórean. As the man closed upon the nearest of the Novices, the girl drew her scimitar. Off came the adult’s face scarf, and Thannor choked on his next inhale. _No._

“Calenor,” he whispered. 

Nori stiffened. “Say that again,” he demanded. 

“Calenor is here,” Thannor said, his voice a slashing blade. Why was the younger man not with Erynor, Yahzin and Finnur? 

A horrible suspicion grew in Thannor’s gut. Where one Brother went, so too did the others. Was that not the truth of things? Had Thannor not noted how Calenor and Erynor had chafed under his orders, how they had wished to rescue Berenor themselves?

Then another shock: the Novices _expected_ Calenor. They welcomed his appearance. It was evident by the way all of them altered trajectory to intercept the other Ranger. The Novices’ weapons lowered, and stiff frames loosened in relief. What words were exchanged, Thannor was too distant to hear, but the Ranger saw Calenor wave the Novices onward with urgency, ordering them…where? Where was he telling them to go? And why? 

“Erynor must be here as well,” Thannor growled. So help him, if the two had brought Thannor’s new daughter with them, Thannor would throttle them with his bare hands. She was no more than fourteen!

Nori spat something in Khuzdul. Then in Westron, “My niece?”

Thannor gave him bleak eyes. “Her tracks lead right to the Isenmouthe. And Nori? I believe the Eye itself is actively hunting her.”

Nori stared up at him. Just…stared.

Then with a face hard as granite, the dwarf hefted the spear he’d confiscated from Dori, firmed his shoulders, and charged towards the Isenmouthe. Thannor sprinted after him, fear for them all gonging with each pump of his heart.

OoOoOo

Berenor was dreaming. He knew he was. The world was ugliness and evil, so when a beautiful, innocent-looking girl filled his vision, he didn’t doubt that she was a flight of fancy. Pain followed him no matter what his state, awake or asleep. The burning throbs, the sharp, stabbing pains—they never permitted him a moment’s surcease.

Or was she a Vala come to lead him to Mandos?

He lost view of her and didn’t like that at all. When had his eyelids closed? He forced heavy eyelids to crack open, wincing—sweat and blood had turned his lashes tacky. Berenor fought until they separated. 

_There she is._ Berenor studied her, watching her lips move but not hearing any of it. Were they words of comfort she uttered? 

“’M ready,” he slurred. “Take m’ to…Mandos.”

Her eyes flared, revealing green irises that put Berenor to mind of a cat’s eyes. Hands tentatively stretched out and framed his face. Berenor tried to focus on her next words, but all he caught was, “…no time… You have to… Yahzin and… sister.” She gave him a tremulous smile. 

“Mandos?” he tried again.

A crease appeared on her forehead, and her lips compressed. She shot a look over one shoulder as if worried. Why was…? 

Berenor must have lost consciousness, for his next awareness was the loud click of metal. Heavy weights fell from his wrists.  
His shackles had been removed. 

The shock propelled him upwards. _Morgul blade,_ his mind babbled, ringing with terror. He’d heard his tormentors cackling about what they’d do to him, and he’d been waiting, petrified, ever since. But… Why unshackle him if they intended to stab him with the blade? His mind could make no sense of things. 

Berenor was no sooner upright than pain tore through his torso. With a gasp, he collapsed backwards, but a slender female caught him. Her. This…was no dream. 

“Who?” he managed. 

“We must hurry, Berenor.” This time, her quiet words rang clearly in his ears. “Or they’ll catch us.” The smooth, reassuring weight of a hilt was pressed into his hand, and Berenor wheezed as the seared skin of his palms closed around it. Agonizing or not, he clenched the weapon. Death alone would wrench it from him. 

“Who?” he tried again.

The girl urged him to his feet, and Eru knew Berenor tried to stay there, but his knees wobbled like a toddler’s. The girl ducked under Berenor’s right arm. With a grunt, she stood, pulling him with her. “I’m Yahzin,” she said tightly. Cat’s eyes met his, and Berenor saw something lurking in their depths that he hadn’t expected, a vulnerable starry-eyed expression. Why? Did he know her?

Yahzin prodded him to a stumbling walk, face forward and muscles straining. “I’m your new sister,” she told him.

His new… _what?_

Before he was done reeling from that unexpected declaration, Erynor’s head ducked through the door. Berenor tripped. His eyes flooded with a wash of tears. His brothers had come for him. Into Mordor itself, they’d come for him. 

A shudder wracked his spine, one of debilitating relief. Berenor felt broken and lost and terribly young, but his brothers were here. It was foolish, he knew, yet he felt safer for his brother’s presence. 

“C’mon, Baby Mule,” his blond-haired brother hissed, impatience lining his face until he spotted her…and Berenor. Erynor blanched and swallowed. “Eru, Ber.” 

A tear escaped Berenor’s control to trickle down his cheek, and his brother’s eyes looked all the more wounded to see it. 

Yahzin snapped, “A little help?”

Erynor shook himself. Then with a new and hard strength claiming his features, Erynor hurried to Berenor’s opposite side and eased a gentle arm around Berenor’s battered body. Erynor grimaced in sympathy at Berenor’s sharp and pained inhale. “Sorry,” Erynor murmured. 

Berenor intended to ask what was happening, but he lost the ability to speak when daggers of pain jabbed through him as his two rescuers picked up their pace. Berenor’s legs fumbled to aid them as his mind struggled to understand what exactly was happening. Where was Calenor? What of Berenor’s father? Was he involved in this? 

Deprived of words, Berenor instead jerked his head at Yahzin, silently demanding an explanation.

Erynor nodded shortly. Was that confirmation? How could Yahzin be his sister?

The three paused, and Erynor used one foot to toe the door open. “Still clear,” his brother announced.

“Why?” Yahzin asked. “This makes no sense.”

“Questions later,” Erynor said. They stepped onto the street, and Berenor squinted. By the Valar, he’d never thought to see such intense light again. Wait. This was Mordor. How could the sun…?

An altogether different type of shudder shook Berenor’s frame. This was no sunlight. It was the Eye. Berenor’s mouth dried to see the blazing white ball’s glare race along the streets. Sauron was searching for someone or something. “Who…” he croaked. “Who is it…searching…for?”

“Don’t know,” Erynor said. A short look slid Berenor’s way. _Don’t ask,_ that look said. 

Berenor’s gut contracted. Erynor suspected a victim. The only reason he’d stay silent was to keep Berenor or Yahzin from trying to interfere, which meant it was someone one of them cared for. _Who?_ Who else had ventured here after him? 

_Not Father. Please, not my father._ Berenor had not felt so young and in need of his parent in over a decade. To think of losing Thannor… He couldn’t bear it. 

_Is this why,_ a part of him asked. _Is this why Saldís clings so to Bifur?_ At last, he understood his cousin better, and Berenor wished he didn’t. He felt unmanned by neediness.

The three awkwardly ran down the abandoned street, keeping to the edges. No, not abandoned, Berenor realized. Upon spying Erynor, kids crept out of hiding and darted to him. One had an ugly gash down his cheek. Another limped, his foot a bloody mess. One, a girl with a birthmark on her face, had one arm wrapped around her bleeding belly but still kept her scimitar up defensively. 

In less than half a minute, fourteen teenagers silently added themselves to Berenor’s group. Each carried a weapon, and each harbored a shell-shocked look in his or her eyes. What, Berenor longed to demand, were _kids_ doing here? What kind of monster…?

The thought slammed into the walls of reality. _These kinds of monsters,_ he thought grimly. The black-souled wretches who had tortured Berenor would not hesitate to endanger kids, and a dark and dangerous temper flared to life in his breast in response. He’d never hated before, but now his soul felt choked with it. The Black Númenóreans needed to die.

“Where…?” A moan escaped him, swallowing Berenor’s question. Green cat’s eyes rushed to him with worry. 

_My sister._ How it had happened didn’t matter. Berenor knew Erynor would not lie. Erynor confirmed she was his sister, so it was so. Berenor tried again. “Where are we…going?” 

“Calenor’s here,” Erynor answered softly. “With any luck, he’ll have found a place for us to hide.”

“In Mordor?” Berenor burst.

Yahzin’s expression said she agreed with Berenor, but Erynor’s dimpled chin hardened. Dark eyes speared his way. “Don’t start. We’d never make it past the Black Gates even if you were fit. We came in through Minas Morgul in disguise. Unless you want to try the Ringwraiths, we’re stuck. You don’t like it? Come up with an alternative.”

His brother stomped forward, letting Yahzin take all of Berenor’s weight. Erynor moved into the lead with shoulders taut and spine stiff. 

Berenor flinched, and he knew Yahzin saw it. By the Valar, he did not have it in him to deal with an argument. His nerves were scraped bloody and raw, and he knew he was off. Such a weight of exhaustion enveloped him that curling up and waiting for Mandos was a temptation that continued to tantalize him. 

That and breaking down and sobbing like a babe. 

Berenor’s temper pricked. He had nothing more to give. Didn’t Erynor understand that? Berenor’s brothers had always looked to him for leadership. Couldn’t Erynor for once step forward and take charge himself? 

The bitterness accompanying that thought stunned Berenor. For a second, it had tasted like…hatred. _Eru._

“Don’t,” Yahzin whispered. When Berenor turned to her, he received a second shock. By the Valar, she understood. No words were needed. This young girl…someone had hurt her, too. Berenor wobbled on his feet and tears again flooded his eyes beyond his control. 

_This isn’t the time for tears,_ an inner voice berated. He had a new sister to protect. All the kids with her, too. Instead of putting strength in his spine, the realization sapped him further. 

A shout lifted his head. A man pointed straight at Berenor’s group. Dozens of Black Númenóreans charged onto the street…and came right at them. 

“Baby Mule?” Erynor said.

“Stop calling me that,” Yahzin snapped.

“Get him out of here,” Berenor’s brother said in a flat, too-even tone. “Go.”

“Go?” Berenor protested. Any anger vaporized. What was Erynor planning?

The heat of Erynor’s glare scorched him. “She’s your sister. Ours, got it? I want you both out of here.”

“Not without you,” Berenor growled. Somehow, he found the strength to stand straight.

Erynor gave him a crooked grin, one Berenor might have believed if he hadn’t noticed it wobble. “I’ll be right behind you,” Erynor lied to his face.

“No,” Berenor protested weakly, his heart pounding with a new fear. The entire time he’d been tortured, he’d had the comfort of knowing Erynor and Calenor had been spared his fate. Erynor could not leave him now. 

Erynor directed his gaze to the kids with a significant look. “Get them out of here. Find Calenor.” Berenor’s brother drew a second blade and planted himself to meet the enemy. A couple of the teens shuffled forward to join him.

_They are going to sacrifice themselves._

No. Every fiber of Berenor resounded with denial.

But Yahzin. The kids. 

Berenor permitted Yahzin to coax him into a painful jog, his heart sloughing off bits of itself with every step. To leave his brother… 

Yahzin led them down a narrow space between two buildings. One kid eeled around them to take point. 

“We’ll have to climb,” the shaggy, tow-headed boy said, his pale eyes looking to Berenor. 

They all looked to him, he realized, and a cold knot formed in his belly. A part of Berenor wished nothing more than to surrender. This was Mordor. Where could they hide? They were trapped and vastly outnumbered. 

But a mutinous fragment of the Ranger he’d been rose up at the call of need. _Cry later,_ it said tiredly. _Mandos may yet be only a short distance ahead, but don’t let Sauron have these kids easily._

The lure of Mandos brought more comfort than it should have. Berenor’s focus drifted to his new sister. She was his obligation. He was the older sibling. 

One kid scaled the iron slab serving as a wall and threw a rope down. For Yahzin, Berenor mustered a strength he hadn’t known left to him. He ignored the agony flaring through his body and forced himself to climb, gasping every inch of the way.

The majority of the kids didn’t wait for the rope. They scrambled up the buildings to either side of Berenor until they gained sufficient height to clamber over the wall. From there, they leaped down. 

When he reached the top, Berenor had to pause, gasping for breath. Yahzin, who’d paced him the entire way, hovered by his shoulder protectively. Little use having a big brother was doing for her, he sneered to himself.

So it was that Yahzin and Berenor had a perfect view of the street as the enemy closed in on Erynor and the three teens. Berenor’s breaths turned choppy. He expected to see Erynor and his young allies fall in the next instant.

It didn’t happen. 

Instead, a black-clad body insinuated itself between Erynor’s group and the Black Númenóreans…and charged at the enemy. _“Go!”_ the female roared over her shoulder in fury.

 _Saldís,_ Berenor recognized with horror. His cousin jumped into the Black Númenóreans’ midst…and disappeared from sight. Shouts followed. Shouts of anger. Shouts of frustration and pain. 

Erynor shoved the three teenagers into motion, forcing them to retreat. But Erynor hesitated. 

“No, Erynor. Run,” Berenor whispered. It was too late for Saldís—grief punched him hard to think it. Likely she was already dead, and…

But no. The fight continued. How…?

“He wants her alive,” Yahzin said in a numb tone. “She’s the one the Eye wants.”

“What?” His head whipped to her. 

“I heard them. When we were trapped in the barracks. Orders were given, saying to leave the Novices, that the Eye wanted _her,”_ Yahzin explained. Her young face hardened with determination, and her chin lifted.

 _No._ Berenor grabbed her. 

“She’s our commander,” Yahzin argued.

A blast threatened to shear both from their perch. As one, new brother and sister grasped hold of the wall and hunched low, their argument abandoned in favor of seeking the source of this latest threat.

Where the fight had been seconds before was empty street. The Black Númenóreans sprawled like discarded toys, tossed to the sides. 

Berenor found Erynor. His brother scrambled backwards as an imposing figure in black armor slowly walked down the street’s center, a toothy grin on…his?…its?…face. It had one hand lifted, and dangling midair like a fish on a line writhed Saldís. 

Wind gusted around her, making short shrift of her face scarf. Her hair blew around her like a messy halo, obscuring much of her face. What little Berenor saw of her profile was pure defiance. His cousin flung a dagger at the unknown man, then a second. 

Neither reached him. With the creature’s wag of the finger, each was catapulted from its trajectory, clattering to either side of the street.

“Face me,” she shouted. “Come on. _Face me,_ you coward!” 

“The Mouth,” Yahzin moaned, panic leeching the strength from her words. 

Who? 

The Mouth retracted his arm, and a struggling Saldís was pulled inexorably closer, her boots yards above the street. 

Erynor and the three kids reached them, and Berenor’s white-faced brother tossed the kids upwards one at a time. Each slapped hold of the top of the wall, pulled himself over, and dropped below with no hesitation. No, they wanted away, and something about that Mouth made Berenor tremble with the need to run. 

When it was Erynor’s turn, the Ranger reached the top and shoved Yahzin off. The girl squawked but landed on her feet next to the other teens. Then, it was Berenor’s turn. Erynor wrapped an arm around his waist and bounced them both off the wall. As their feet slammed into earth, Berenor cried out, agony shooting through his whole body. 

But then Calenor was there. Calenor, who wasted no time with greetings but took Berenor’s opposite arm.

They fled. Eru forgive them—Berenor looked back at the Isenmouthe with a world of guilt choking him—they fled. They left The Brothers’ cousin to the Mouth’s mercies. 

Some Ranger he’d turned out to be.


	60. Dark Daughter

_**The Isenmouthe, Mordor** _

Akhora bellowed with boundless rage as she was knocked from her feet and hurled through the air. She’d been cutting down the Black Númenórean scum like chaff, and someone had interfered—someone who would die once she found him. 

Buildings rushed by in a blur. Akhora crashed onto the street and slid, rough stone shredding skin and clothes. The air rushed from her lungs, and curse it, she lost hold of her blood-slicked scimitars! Her skull smacked down last and stars exploded across her vision. Her body flashed so many pain signals, she lay stunned in that moment. 

_Get up,_ the misbegotten parasite sharing her body snarled. _Get. UP! We are not done!_ Saldís’s demand burned through their veins. The longer they fought— _Akhora_ fought—the more time they purchased for her wretched Novices and The Brothers to escape, may they rot. 

By the Eye, she wanted the runt-lover _out_ of _her head._ How _dare_ she think her desires could rule here? How dare she compel Akhora into the center of a mob of Black Númenóreans? 

_Afraid?_ Saldís mocked scathingly. 

Akhora growled aloud, livid with that inner parasite, livid at being torn from the playground the Dark Lord had presented her— _Take her alive,_ she ridiculed once more—and Durin curse it, livid with whomever had interrupted her! 

Durin curse it? _Get out of my head,_ she yelled at her inner runt.

 _Make. Me,_ Saldís said with an impression of teeth bared.

As lashing out at her was impossible, Akhora returned to killing things. She snatched up her blowpipe and darted the nearest target: a Weapon fighting to his knees just out of arm’s reach. Blood matted the side of his head, clear indication of why he’d failed to subdue her while she’d lain stunned. 

The dart pierced his neck. His body convulsed, foam flecked his lips, and he was done. 

It wasn’t enough. If she killed them all, it wouldn’t be nearly enough. Akhora stuffed another dart into her blowpipe and forced wobbly legs beneath her. 

A visual sweep revealed the soon-to-be-dead Arcanist who’d unleashed the torrent of wind had caught most of the Black Númenóreans on the street in his net. Idiot. A couple of his companions had broken bones, and one woman’s skull had cracked open. 

A scimitar slashed out from behind. _Orc spit!_ Akhora’s knees folded. Her spine bowed backwards. The blade sliced millimeters from the tip of her nose. 

How had the wretch snuck up on her? 

Akhora’s palm slapped onto the street for leverage. Using it as a pivot, her leg slashed out and swiped under the Weapon’s feet. 

He jumped, but as she came up, the kick’s inertia carrying her, her fist plowed into his face. The Weapon staggered, but his scimitar shot forward. 

Akhora twisted away, hissing when a sting across her waist informed her she hadn’t been quick enough. She leaped and kicked out. Her foot connected with his belly. 

Down he went. Before he could recover, she locked his head between her feet. With a sharp hop and twist, she snapped his neck. He too was no longer an issue.

More Weapons and Arcanists regained their feet. Akhora drove for her scimitars. Her hands snatched up the hilts as she rolled back to her feet. After spinning around, she positioned them defensively. 

And frowned. 

No one faced her. Akhora eased back one step, then two, her eyes darting. No matter where she looked, Black Númenóreans stood with rigid postures, their focuses locked elsewhere. A thrill of unease wormed it way down her back. She pointed her nose in the same direction. 

What. Was. That? 

A solitary figure strolled down the center of the street dressed in the blackest of armor. Power radiated off of him, tremendous power, and an aura of malice wafted off of him in palpable waves. 

Fear ghosted along the edges of Akhora’s mind. This was a bigger predator. Instinct shouted the warning. And this, she suddenly suspected, was the one to have interrupted the fighting with that blast of wind. 

It headed right for her, and Akhora’s hands turned clammy. What was it? 

Its features were human…mostly…and she blamed the _off_ -ness for preventing her from identifying him sooner. _Kimilzor,_ she and her Saldís-self realized with shock, but a Kimilzor much changed. The icy green eyes that had haunted her child-self’s nightmares had become bottomless pools of liquid Shadow. They looked empty enough, hungry enough, to suck the very soul from a body.

A resurgence of fury shredded her fear and tossed caution to the wind. No matter what Kimilzor was now, if it was possible to kill him, she would find the way. He’d stolen _everything._ He’d used her. He’d played with and deceived her. She would cut the warg spawn’s throat and feed him to the orcs. 

Her eyes narrowed. _For Adâd,_ she heard Saldís growl.

Not hardly. For removing that runt, Akhora could almost thank the wretch. Almost. _For **me,**_ she countered. _For what he did to me._

A quick inspection. A fast decision. Kimilzor was dangerous, likely more so now. If she was to have any hope in taking him, she had to strike without warning. 

Akhora dropped both swords. Before they hit the pavement, she’d hurled her first throwing knife, aiming for Kimilzor’s throat. A second dagger was flying from her opposite hand before the first reached its target. 

Kimilzor didn’t blink. He made no attempt to flinch or dodge. Akhora had just registered that oddity when her leading dagger…melted. It lost cohesion like butter under the hot Tovennen sun, splattering metal droplets in a trail that ended inches from his boot. Akhora’s eyes rounded. The second dagger, Kimilzor plucked out of the air. A sickly smile lifted his lips.

 _Move,_ both sides of her shrieked. 

A flick of Kimilzor’s wrist returned the blade at lightning speed. 

Akhora moved. She flattened herself to the street, her heart slamming against her breastbone. The dagger clattered to the ground a distance behind her, and at first she thought she’d been fast enough. Then, a sharp pain atop her scalp told her otherwise. Blood began to seep from the crown of her head. 

Akhora ignored it. By all the orcs in Mordor, what Kimilzor had done, it wasn’t possible. No Arcanist could melt metal. 

Yet Kimilzor…had.

Her fury climbed. Her teeth gnashed together. A puff on her blowpipe sent a dart towards his face. It vanished in a small burst of fire, instantly incinerated. 

_Urkhas kûd!_ Saldís roared, foaming with the need to eradicate her precious adâd’s murderer. In that, Akhora agreed wholeheartedly with her weakling side. Kimilzor had to die. 

Akhora snatched up her scimitars and charged. Swift as a gazelle, she closed the distance between them, girding herself for the magics she knew would be unleashed. A quarter of the distance vanished beneath her feet. Then half. 

The wretch stood there, waiting, as if she was a pesky gnat and no threat to him. It fueled her rage still higher. 

Ten paces remained—ten simple steps until he, curse him, felt the sting of her blade as it cut him open—when a screaming wind slammed into her torso. She was thrown back a half dozen paces, but by the Eye she kept her feet. 

No. She wouldn’t have it! Kimilzor. Would. Not. Prevail! No wind would stop her. His blood was _hers,_ by the Eye. 

Leaning into the wind, Akhora plowed forward, her glare all for the wretch standing there so tantalizingly _close,_ curse it. Inch by slow inch, she regained each step she’d lost. 

Kimilzor…smiled. _By the Eye,_ she howled. The wind intensified, and no matter how she railed and cursed, she was forced backward one step, then two. 

Akhora roared her frustration. The warg spawn was right there, and she couldn’t reach him! “Coward!” she bellowed into the wind. 

Kimilzor’s hand waved—as if he was bored, she frothed—and the wind vanished. Akhora tipped forward, but before she smacked down onto the road, a new gust of air hit her in the belly and catapulted her upwards. Her blades were ripped from her fingers and spiraled down to clatter upon the street. Akhora kicked and wiggled for freedom—she didn’t care how distant the ground was—but there was nothing to fight. How was she supposed to win free of air?

Her vision turned red, and the only thought in her mind was a chanted, _Kill him, kill him, kill him!_ Akhora unleashed what remained of her arsenal, one blade at a time. As each dagger flew, Kimilzor lifted one finger and swung it lazily from one side to the other, much as a parent scolding an unruly child. With each motion, her daggers were violently jettisoned from their path by an unseen force. 

“Face me,” she shouted. “Come on. Face me, you coward!” 

After the last dagger was spent, Kimilzor’s ghoulish eyes narrowed. Her darts and blowpipe burst into flame, burning a swatch of her trousers with them. A choked cry escaped her as fiery fingers licked across her thigh, leaving her nauseated and trembling. 

Kimilzor smiled with fey gentility…and the world abruptly darkened. At first, her breath caught, certain this was some new spell. But no. Akhora’s head lifted in surprise. The Eye had moved, abandoning the Isenmouthe.

 _Nay!_ Saldís cried, instantly fearing for her snot-nosed Novices, but there her weakling half was wrong. The Eye did not swing downward where the Novices would be. 

No, it swung south, far south, and it locked there with tangible force. The white-hot flames surrounding its black pupil vibrated with escalating fury, and a high-pitched, metallic sound filled the air. Sauron was not happy, and even as Akhora panted through the spears of pain from this latest burn, she could not repress a smirk.

Kimilzor seemed to grow in stature, the air of malevolence around him thickening. Though the street filled with Black Númenóreans drawn by the Eye’s movement, a pocket of space remained between Kimilzor and the others. No one was foolhardy enough to near him.

What happened next, she didn’t know, but in the next instant, Akhora was yanked downward as if by a tether. Between one blink and the next, she found herself suspended from Kimilzor’s lifted arm, her boots feet above the ground. His hand slowly closed around her throat, cutting off her air. 

_Curse him to the Pit!_ His magics kept her bound. She could not move. She was close enough to kill him, but she couldn’t reach him!

“Do you think you’ve won?” he hissed. “Do you think this changes anything?”

She had no idea what he prattled on about, and she barely paid attention, more intent upon fighting the invisible bands preventing her from attacking. Spots began to appear in her vision, and she fought on, straining against his magical hold. 

“You will pay for this, turncoat. Oh yes, you will pay.” His teeth chattered, sending chills down her spine. “When I am done with you, Akhora, you will be my eternal plaything. When I’m done, you will belong to me and the Master, heart, body, and soul.”

OoOoOo

__  
**Mountains of Shadow, Southern Mordor**  


“Brace yourselves!”

Alatar had no sooner bellowed his warning than a burst of power pulsated upward from the wizard. The percussion ruffled Dís’s hair, and a sizable number of _gorrah_ hissed in displeasure as they shied away. 

Dár tossed Dís a hard stare, one drenched in incredulity. 

Aye, the aged hunter had the right of it. A little more warning would have been appreciated. She, too, had almost lost her seat at her mount’s violent startle.

The wizard-generated distortion shot skyward, almost invisible until it reached Mordor’s blanket of clouds. There, it punched a hole in the smothering blackness, permitting sunlight—pure, blessed sunlight—to reach the Blacklock army. 

That, she thought dryly, was one way to announce their arrival. Whatever the Blue Wizards’ intent, a surprise attack was not a part of it. Cheers erupted from many a throat, Dís’s among them. This, she deemed, was the first strike against Mordor’s lord, and it was an impressive one. By Mahal, she’d not realized how oppressive that blackness had been, dampening spirits, until it was broken.

The cheers faded, however, as answering shrieks pierced the air. The princess’s eyes widened, and icy chills brushed across her skin. What in Mahal’s name was…?

Her _gorrah_ crested the mountain, and a sight she’d not expected came into view: Minas Morgul. The discordant cries had originated from there. 

_Durin’s beard,_ Dís breathed. She’d had no idea they’d come so far. 

The Dead city branched inward and upward from the mouth of the gap formed by the Mountains of Shadow, and the extent of the city surprised her. Nay, this ancient city of men was not Erebor’s equal in size—she could think of no cities of men that were—but it surpassed Dol Amroth, Umbar, and Dale. She imagined only Minas Tirith matched her. 

Without pause, Dís’s _gorrah_ began its descent into the blighted valley, following those who had gone before it. Truly? The Blue Wizards could not think of a safer path north? Dís glimpsed movement below, like roaches scurrying for the nearest shadow when the lantern was suddenly lit. 

_Only these,_ she thought grimly, _are no roaches._

A second chorus of shrieks shredded the silence, and the Blacklocks’ stalwart mounts shuddered at the terrible sound. The _gorrah_ bugled in response and sped up. Instead of quailing as any sane creature would, the lizards charged forward. 

_They are as mad as the wizards,_ she was forced to conclude. 

Dís shivered. She knew what dwelled in the ancient city beneath her. Aye, she knew, and Alatar’s actions suddenly made perfect sense. With the sun’s rays unleashed to bathe Minas Morgul’s silent streets, the Ringwraiths were driven to seek shelter. Aye, and many of its other denizens too.

The Blacklock army descended into the city and raced onward. Suddenly, a barrage of arrows buzzed through the air. _Gorrah_ snarled and hissed, but their tough hide deflected serious injury. 

Dís hunched low over her mount, cursing. Aye, the Ringwraiths were trapped by the sun, but there was naught preventing orcs from whittling down the Blacklock numbers as the _gorrah_ scuttled through the Dead City’s streets. 

Dár returned fire, and Dís spied an orc tumble out of a window with the aged hunter’s arrow through its neck. Blacklock archers followed suit, and by Durin, they hit what they aimed at, the _gorrah’s_ incredible speed notwithstanding. 

A random thought brought a private smile to her lips and heart. Kíli would have relished this. Running a breakneck speeds through a convoluted city while trying to bring down enemies? Aye, her son would have definitely enjoyed this. 

Dís would have, too, had she any skill with a bow. In that, she and Fíli had been lamentably lacking, a fact that had tickled her youngest son. Dís grumpily made herself a smaller target and let others defend her.

Six hundred strong _gorrah_ with their swarthy riders crashed through streets both grand and narrow like a flood. Another unnerving shriek pierced the air, one ripe with fury, but even with the Nazgûl to frighten the orcs into pursuit, the Blacklocks’ attackers were swiftly outpaced. The barrage of arrows dwindled and then stop altogether. 

Minutes later, the dwarf army’s leading edge reached Minas Morgul’s north flank. The city ended, and the Mountains of Shadow resumed. 

The first rank of lizards ascended. Dís swallowed bile as her _gorrah_ reached the cliff and switched from horizontal to vertical. She tightened her grip on her saddle as the ground fell away below and endeavored to pretend she was _not_ hanging with naught but a couple strips of leather and a lizard between her and a lethal fall. This would be her first and last trip by _gorrah_ if she had aught to say about it.

Dár, conversely, could not stifle his jolly laughter. The white-haired hunter beamed at her, his pale cheeks flushed red with excitement and his eyes a-twinkling. Dár, she decided, was as addled as the _gorrah_ and the wizards.

The army scaled the summit of the mountain, and a new light abruptly blared in their faces. Dís squinted into it, her head whipping north in search of the source. She was not long finding it. 

So. _That_ one had noticed them. Not surprising after the wizard’s action and the army’s subsequent traipsing through the Dead City. 

As the malevolent light from Barad-Dur bathed their mountaintop in a sickly light, Princess Dís, daughter of Thrain, daughter of Thror, rose in her stirrups. She would not cower before Sauron the Deceiver no matter how thick the air grew with terror. She was a Durin, and by her Maker’s hammer, she would make the evil lord pay for all he’d done. 

Shucking the vestiges of terror that clung to her like insistent fingers— _You’ll need to do better than this,_ she promised her foe—Dís drew Thorin’s sword and shouted her defiance, a roar quickly taken up by the Blacklocks. Nay, fear would not deter them. They were dwarves, hewn from solid rock itself. Let Mordor’s lord try to make them quail. It would avail him not.

The Eye’s beam of light darted over the dwarves, somehow (Dís smirked) missing the Blue Wizards altogether. That trick was serving the two wizards quite well. Still standing in her stirrups, Dís shouted, “The Line of Durin has come for you, Deceiver. For Thorin! For Thrain!”

It was as if he heard her, for the flames bracketing that eerie pupil burned all more violently. The beam of light found her, narrowed upon her. _YOU WILL DIE, SHE-DWARF,_ the air itself thundered. 

“I will see you destroyed,” she hollered back. “By my brother’s sword, you will pay for what you’ve done to my people. Aulë’s children shall be your end!” All around, Blacklocks roared their agreement. “Come and get us if you dare!” 

Dís returned to her saddle and slid her sword back into its scabbard. Brazen? Aye, her words had been that. 

She regretted none of them. She would exact a heavy, heavy price for all Sauron and his filth had stolen from her. “For you, my sons,” she whispered. “For you.”

OoOoOo

__  
**The Isenmouthe, Mordor**  


The Mouth released his magics and dumped the blue-lipped woman on the ground. So fragile men were, even the Black Númenóreans. Deprive them of air and death came quickly. 

But not to her. Oh no, her punishment would last for centuries. Strangling her to death was too easy. He’d halted the assault the instant she lost consciousness. 

The Mouth’s smile panned over one shoulder. “Return the second dwarf to Ost Egla’s basement,” he commanded Ne-Abhar. “Our prisoners will have the privilege of witnessing our newest wraith’s transformation.”

The silent, brown haired Weapon signaled a handful of others to his side and departed after a short bow. 

“Should we take her, too, His Mouth?” Lord Mordhalor inquired. The middle aged Weapon stood at attention, his dark features bland but his eyes blazing with murderous intent upon Akhora.

“I will deliver her to her just end,” the Mouth said. His smile flashed and his fingers tapped before his chest. “Tell me,” he directed to the assembled leadership waiting beside Lord Mordhalor. “A half a day has passed. Where is the dwarf army I commanded your Arcanists to locate?” 

Blood drained from the faces of lords and commanders alike. 

It was answer enough. The Mouth’s fingers tapped again, and a second smile flashed. They had failed their Mouth. By paling, they proved they were not so lacking in intelligence not to know how…unwise…that was. 

“A second dwarf army has arrived,” the Mouth continued in the same vein. He paused and smiled again. “They will fall as will all of Middle Earth. But I am curious. I’ve yet to hear what news you have on the first group of dwarves.”

A few eyes slid away from his. Others stared blankly, not challenging but not shying away. Those, the Mouth thought, were of use to him. The nervous ones, he dismissed from the Dark Lord’s service. Permanently.

He twisted fire and earth magics as no other Arcanist could—the Dark Lord’s blessing had its rewards—and the ground beneath the feet of the cowards instantly changed to pits of lava. Fifteen men and women vanished before they could scream, their bodies sliding into the lava pools like a boulders into a pond.

In a blink, they were gone. Only hardening dots of crusty and glowing earth remained. 

He trusted he’d made his point. He and the Master had no further patience for those who flinched. 

There were no mutters. The witnesses held themselves carefully erect. They did not move a hair, though they sweat profusely, and that he found mildly amusing. Given the blobs of cooling lava mere feet away from some of them, he supposed they had reason to stay absolutely still. Doubtless, they would sport severe burns from proximity. 

The Mouth frowned. He could not afford to lame them. With little grace, he forced heat from the lava, returning it to cold stone. 

“The Age of the Duumvirate is done,” he informed his audience. “From now on, you will answer to me…and our Master.” His black gaze cut to one side to spear Ib-Govien, acting lord of House Herumor in Kavish’s absence. “Answer my question Ib-Govien. As ranking Arcanist, you have been a part of the search. What has been found of the dwarves?”

“We have found no evidence of a dwarf army within Mordor, His Mouth,” the man said. A bead of sweat wound its way down Govien’s fleshy face. 

“Can we not question _her,_ my…His Mouth?” Ar-Valgor, Lord Mordhalor, ventured to ask with tightly coiled anger. “She brought them. It was she who turned our Novices. Give me but an hour with her, and she will beg to tell us all she knows.”

The Mouth chortled, fingers tapping once again. “She will,” he agreed. “Oh yes, she will. But it will be at the Dark Lord’s pleasure, not yours Lord Mordhalor.” A pause. “Where is Ar-Zirit?”

Valgor reported, “He collected a team of Weapons and pursued the Novices.”

The Mouth went absolutely still, fury filling him. Ar-Zirit would die. “Recall them,” he snapped to Valgor.

“Of course, His Mouth,” the lord said with a bow. 

“We have Gondorians riding upon the Black Gates. Two dwarf armies have infiltrated our lands, one of which managed to somehow puncture the cloud cover over Minas Morgul and drive the Nazgûl underground,” the Mouth snarled at his audience. “We do not waste our resources on _children.”_

A group splintered off and raced out of the outpost at Valgor’s command. Lord Mordhalor then turned to the Mouth. “The Novices are trained, His Mouth. They could pose—”

“A threat?” the Mouth interrupted. “I know where the Novices head, Lord Mordhalor. Durthang. Let them hole up there, believing themselves safe. Let them rot for now. They can wait. Durthang is of no value to me at the moment. Its location is useless to us.”

The Mouth pivoted on one heel and headed to Ost Egla, his magics collecting Akhora and carrying her along in his wake. Over his shoulder, he snapped, “Find me that first dwarf army!”

OoOoOo

__  
**The Morgai, Mordor**  


Boots thudded. Breaths rasped from lungs. Eyes darted over shoulders, wide with terror and helplessness. 

Thannor’s grip on his unconscious son tightened, and his jaw clenched. If Calenor was wrong, if the ancient Gondorian fortress of Durthang was not as abandoned as he’d reported, this mad dash up a mountainside was for nothing. He and his charges would die.

Nori was gone. When the dwarf had departed, none could say. By the Valar, none of them had _noticed,_ and that fueled the Ranger’s already blazing temper. 

They’d left her. They’d left Saldís at the enemy’s mercies. Not Akhora—from Saldís’s own admission, her darker side would never throw herself into peril for the sake of others, not of her own volition. That meant Thannor’s cousin had returned to dominance. 

_For all the good it will do her._ Under the Dark Lord’s hand, Akhora was certain to regain control. In all likelihood, she already had.

Thannor glanced behind him. The road remained empty. 

Why? Fear said their enemy knew Durthang was staffed by more than the skeleton crew Calenor had spotted. Fear urged Thannor’s feet to fly in another direction. 

There was none. If Durthang did not prove the haven they hoped, Thannor and the sixty-three precious charges Saldís had given her life to save were doomed. 

Did she know what the Novices had done? Instead of rejoining the Black Númenóreans as Saldís had concluded, these Novices had ventured into Mordor as unofficial Dunedain. They had come with the intent to help their commander and undermine the enemy. These teens, these children, had done what few grown men would dare to do. No, the Novices had not succeeded as they’d hoped, but by Eru, they had tried. It was more than many could boast. 

Thannor darted yet another glance over his shoulder and so was the first to witness a young teen with cropped black hair madly pump his legs to catch up with the rest of them.

“Thyndo!” Tahal identified. The reed-thin older Novice fell back and so was in position to catch the youngster when Thyndo’s knees gave out. Without hesitation, Tahal bent down so that Thyndo could crawl on to his back. Then with arms looped around the new arrival’s knees, Tahal returned to a jog. 

“Ib-Zirit…” Thyndo gasped as Tahal ran into the midst of the other survivors. “He… He and his troops were recalled…by the Mouth’s orders. I…heard it…Tahal.”

“You stayed behind to spy on them?” a redheaded girl blurted. 

Thyndo bobbed his head shortly.

Tahal’s eyes sought Gylmal’s. Neither of the Novices’ self-appointed leaders said what Thannor was certain they wondered. It was the same question that haunted them all. Why would the Mouth permit them to escape?

Thannor had been told about the “Mouth” by Erynor and Yahzin. To hear them both speak of it, the creature was nothing more than Sauron’s vessel. Powerful, yes, but not one acting entirely on his own. That the Dark Lord let these Novices slip away did not fit with anything Thannor knew of Mordor’s lord. 

By Eru, what was the Dark Lord up to? The answer, he feared, couldn’t be good.

As the minutes stretched into hours, Thyndo proved to be the last straggler to add himself to their numbers. The rest of the Novices were either captured…or dead. The whispers began, tales shared among the Novices of loss. Tales of fellows who had purchased other Novices’ safe retreat with their own blood. 

The name Alhez reached Thannor’s ears. Vynter, Mazir, Voral and Tanna, too. Thannor could put face to none of the names, but he swore that if ever he and these Novices won free of Mordor, every one of their fallen would be recorded among the registry of Rangers to have died fighting the Shadow. They would be remembered and hailed as heroes.

Sixty-four Novices now remained of a force that had entered Mordor ninety-one strong. Eru knew they were lucky so many had survived. It could have been infinitely worse. 

Sixty-four.

OoOoOo

__  
**Ost Egla, Mordor**  


Shouts registered a split second before the door slammed open. Bifur’s head jerked up to see a wildly struggling Bofur being dragged across the threshold by six Black Númenóreans. Bofur’s legs and fists thrashed violently, and he roared, the sound painted with desperation.

 _Mahal._ Bifur stiffened, fear instantly replacing his relief at seeing his cousin in one piece. “Bofur!” 

“They have her,” his cousin shouted, twisting in the men’s grasp. When their eyes met, Bofur’s were wide with panic. “They’ve got her, Bif. They’ve got our lass.”

Nay.

Bofur’s fist connected with one man’s jaw like a hammer, and a solid kick folded another in twain. Despite that, the sound of shackles snapping shut soon followed.

Bifur noticed little of it. His gaze locked upon that open doorway, anxious for a glimpse and praying Bofur was mistaken. _Not my Gêdul. Ye could not allow her to wind up here._ Not after all she’d endured.

A cold sweat broke out upon Bifur’s skin. Saldís at the Mouth’s mercy? _Nay,_ his mind repeated. _Nay._

This would break him. The Mouth’s relish as he’d recounted details about the sick game Valkthor had played returned to Bifur with chilling clarity. He had no doubts the Mouth could concoct worse tortures, and his heart bled in anticipation.

The Mouth filled the door frame. Bifur tried to brace himself but knew it useless. If the Mouth held Saldís, he held the power to destroy Bifur. ‘Twas a fact. 

An evil and toothy smile beamed first at Bofur, then Bifur. “The wheel turns,” it said in a sickly gentle voice. “Since you stole Akhora from us, the Master feels it only right that we return the favor. Permanently.”

Steal her? Bifur’s head reared back, his heart a-pounding with amplified dread. What did the knave mean, _stea—?_

The question crumbled as the Mouth stepped to one side. Bifur gave a strangled cry, for there, hanging in the air and weakly struggling, was his daughter. Mahal, she was drenched in blood. 

The Mouth waved a negligent hand, and Bifur’s daughter was flung into the room by naught Bifur could see. She smacked down hard, skidding and rolling past Black Númenóreans until she halted near Bofur’s feet.

“Ye Valar-be-cursed warg’s arse!” Bofur snarled, wrestling with his chains as he glared at the Mouth. “Pick on someone your own size!”

If the Mouth answered, Bifur didn’t hear it. His eyes rushed over his daughter, and a moan escaped him. So much blood, there was, but he could not see a wound to explain the amount. What he did see were ugly gashes—too many of them—blistered burns, and swollen bruises littering her body. A right mess, she was, worse than Fíli had been when they’d pulled his lifeless body from the battlefield.

“Nay,” he breathed, his heart truly paining him. “Nay.” 

She gasped for breath. Though the light was low, Bifur detected a bluish tint to her lips. (Mahal, what else was wrong with her?) She forced herself to her knees, her lips sporting a feral snarl. 

“My Saldís,” Bifur managed hoarsely.

Eyes as hard as diamonds flicked in Bifur’s direction. There, they froze, rounding with such a look of shock and devastation as to gut a dwarf. Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “Adâd?” she said in a strangled voice. 

He’d hoped to never hear that tone from her again. ‘Twas the wounded, shamed voice she’d used when she’d failed to escape Thorin’s Hall, back when all her past crimes had come to light. 

Bifur’s throat tightened. He noted the braids in his Saldís’s hair—her uncles had restored her adoption braid, Mahal bless them, and… Was that a courtship braid he saw? Who could have…?

 _Finnin,_ he realized. Valkthor’s trick gained a new level of horror. There could be no other dwarf Bifur’s Saldís would have accepted. _Oh Mahal, nay. Not this._ Life had stolen everything from his lass, and now Finnin, too? Using her hand? 

A wall of ice slammed down over her bonny eyes, and her mouth twisted in scorn. Her gaze cut away dismissively. Nay, contemptuously. His brow creased, but the oddity fled when Saldís lurched to her feet. 

“I’ll kill you like I did your son,” Saldís hissed, glaring at the Mouth. No trace remained of the vulnerability of seconds prior. 

“I’m sure it was painful,” the Mouth said agreeably.

Bifur’s daughter balled a fist, her chin low and shoulders lifted. She prowled towards the Mouth, and the Mouth permitted it, waving off the Black Númenóreans before they intervened.

“I gouged out his eyes, cut off his nose, and ripped open his belly,” Saldís said. A cruel smile lifted her lips. “By now, the insects will have finished him. _You_ will die slower.” 

So impressed was the Mouth with her threat that he gestured for his underlings to go. They departed, leaving dwarves, Mouth, and lass alone. “You think you will be killing me?” the Mouth asked with that terrible smile. “No, it is not _me_ who will die at your hands.” His gaze flicked significantly to first Bifur, then Bofur.

 _Oh, nay._ Bifur’s gaze collided with his cousin’s. What was the creature planning to do? 

“Dwarves?” Saldís scoffed, her scathing tone shocking Bifur to his core. “Is that supposed to unnerve me? _Torment_ me?” Her smile grew while the Mouth’s faded. “With Valkthor’s aid, I removed the first runt who dared to get in my way. Give me a dagger, and I’ll do the same to these two. _After_ I cut your heart out.”

Bifur’s head reared back, his eyes wide and mouth slack. From across the distance, Bofur gaped like a fish. A jagged spear in the gut would have been kinder, but overriding the hurt roiled utter confusion. By the seven dwarf fathers, it actually sounded like she meant her words.

What had just happened? One minute she’d looked upon Bifur with pleading. The next, ‘twas as if she despised the ground her adâd stood upon. Had she greeted him from the first with fury, Bifur would understand. She’d entered Mordor for her adâd’s sake and lost her love. He’d not have liked it, not one whit, but he’d have understood.

But this? ‘Twas like a stranger stood there, one without a shred of caring for Bifur or Bofur. A terrible instinct told him this woman would spit upon his grave and never— _Nay!_

Saldís sprang at the creature, and Bifur’s breath stuck in his throat. Bofur shouted words Bifur did not hear. Saldís’s aim was true, but between one bat o’ the eye and the next, the Mouth wasn’t there. 

Saldís landed, stumbling, with a snarl of fury and whipped around. The Mouth reappeared behind her and grabbed her before Bifur and Bofur could shout a warning. 

“Stalling, Akhora?” the Mouth crooned. “Your dwarf armies will not arrive in time to save you.”

 _Armies?_ Bofur mouthed. 

Bifur could not but shake his head. ‘Twas the Mouth’s second reference to a dwarf invasion, and it made no sense. Even if Dwalin could be in the region—which logic said he couldn’t—he’d never lead their warriors into Mordor. It would be suicide. And Dain? Dain, Bifur thought with scorn, was like as not holed up in his safe mountain. 

“Take a good look at them, Akhora,” the Mouth continued, its cheek pressed to hers from behind. Though Saldís’s muscles showed evidence she strained with all her might, she moved not an inch, not even when the Mouth’s hands released her. Blazing gray eyes locked with Bifur’s, naught of the affection Bifur had grown accustomed to in evidence. 

Confusion and alarm grew. By Mahal, that first meeting, he’d seen her. He’d seen his Saldís and the breaking of her heart. What in Durin’s name was going on? And who, by Mahal, did he have to kill for doing this to his lass? 

“Your _father,”_ the Mouth mocked. “Your _uncle._ It will be your hand that slays them.” 

One black-gloved finger wrenched her chin upwards, but it was to Bifur the Mouth addressed his next words. “What secrets did you share, dwarf? Soon, all of them will belong to the Dark Lord.” That smile returned, razor-sharp. “In repayment for your crimes, the Master has decreed it will be _your_ daughter who will lead Mordor against the remaining dwarf kingdoms, _your_ daughter who will bring about the end of your people.”

Though Bifur searched madly for some clue as to the creature’s intentions, he was at a loss. Fear curdled on his tongue. What did this monster intend to do to his Saldís? What had it already done?

“Leave her alone!” Bofur shouted as a black blade appeared in the Mouth’s hand, a blade Bifur’s senses instantly screamed was _wrong._ Bifur’s cousin thrashed against his chains, his neck corded and straining. 

Bifur could not move. All his vows had come to nothing. 

What had Bifur done for his Gêdul? Kimilzor remained among the living. Bifur’s daughter had been stolen by Gondorians whilst he stood idle. She’d been raped, by Mahal, and she’d been lost to the Sea. Instead of protecting her, he’d permitted her to be taken. He’d permitted her to end up…here. 

Hate him, did she? Perhaps it was no shocking thing.

His heart screamed its anguish as the Mouth stepped back, smirked…and rammed the dagger home. The blade punched through her right shoulder with a sickening sound, jerking her whole body. Saldís’s eyes flew wide, and her lips parted as the blade’s tip reappeared high on her chest. Before Bifur’s heart could restart—’twas no lethal wound—the accursed weapon vanished into smoke. The Mouth tossed the hilt aside like refuse. 

Silence. By Durin, the air rang with it. Only Saldís’s gasps eluded its iron grip.

The Mouth’s magics released Bifur’s daughter, and she fell to her knees. One trembling hand lifted to her shoulder, and her fingers were painted in her own blood. Though her expression remained one of fury, her face was pale and her eyes white. 

“Do you feel it?” the Mouth cooed. “Even now the poison spreads through your veins. Darkness creeps into your soul, pulling you into Shadow one beat of your traitorous heart at a time. When it wins, you will be a slave of Mordor. You, daughter of dwarves, will become a wraith, neither fully dead nor living. When the poison finishes, you will have no desire but one: to serve the Dark Lord’s every whim. Nothing will stop you from killing as our Master wills.” A pause. A smile. “Your first act will be to sacrifice these dwarves.”

On silent feet, the Mouth departed. The door clanged shut in his wake.


	61. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Golodir and his backstory belong to SSG and LoTRO. (Mordirith, too.) I changed events around him after he meets up with Aragorn for my purposes (and because I hadn't progressed in the game far enough to see what SSG did to the poor guy). Also, I'm a sucker for happy endings, and if any character deserved a good turn, it was Golodir. :)

_**Ost Egla, Mordor** _

The pain was intense, a liquid ice that burned hotter than a thousand suns. Akhora’s head bowed. Her breaths hissed between clenched teeth as she knelt on the stone floor with her weight on her left palm. The other arm was all but useless, concurrently numb and cramping in agony. 

Kimilzor’s parting words echoed through her mind. He’d stabbed her with a Morgul blade. He’d damned her to a fate more terrible than the _brih tahn._ At least with that, death would come, releasing her.

Hatred seethed through her veins, and her vision shaded red. By the Eye, he’d stolen her life, from start to finish. The knowledge throbbed like a living, smoldering lump of coal within her core. He’d destroyed _everything,_ and now he won by robbing her even of death. 

How much time did she have? With head dangling and eyes closed, she dredged up all she remembered. Scant was recorded about Morgul blades and their victims. There had been few of either, and all were the stuff of ancient history Ages past. One thing alone had been reported: the purer the soul, the longer it took the poison to drag the person into Shadow. 

A bitter laugh escaped her. She was doomed. Did she have days? Hours? Just how black was her soul?

Voices babbled at her—the dwarves, she thought with distant scorn. She little cared about them. She’d been _stabbed_ with a _Morgul blade._ Kimilzor had won. He’d _won,_ and all she wished was to rend and kill in a berserker rage. She didn’t care what.

No, that wasn’t true. She wanted Kimilzor, but that, too, was denied her. 

_Where are your precious Valar now, runt-lover?_ Blame funneled in a new direction: Saldís’s. If not for her, Akhora wouldn’t have been captured. She’d never have lost rank or been deemed a traitor in Dale. She’d still be a commander cloaked with power and authority. 

_So you’d rather that you’d never stopped licking Kimilzor’s boots like a dog,_ Saldís said with scorn. 

Akhora’s nostrils flared as the words struck deep. How _dare_ that—

_Why so angry? If serving **him** is what your heart desires, we’ll be doing it mindlessly soon enough._

Akhora’s left fingers curled into claws upon the stone floor. She hated her. By the Eye, she _hated_ her, and she’d make Saldís pay for ruining her existence! 

She knew just how. Her head lifted, bringing her target into view. 

_You obey Kimilzor already?_ Saldís asked in a pitiful attempt to deflect her. The weakling failed to mask her desperation, and Akhora purred.

Yes, she had the perfect weapon to destroy her inner parasite. _You should never have forced me to your will,_ she said. _Be a good girl and keep your eyes open. I wouldn’t want you to miss this._

OoOoOo

Poisoned.

By Mahal, his daughter had been _poisoned._ If the Mouth was to be believed, she’d be changed into a wraith. She’d never find rest, never join him in Mandos’ Halls. The horror of it kept Bifur frozen for long minutes. 

‘Twas a Morgul blade that had been used upon her, he realized distantly, a roaring filling his ears. _Nay,_ an inner voice chanted. _Nay._

Saldís’s head lifted. Now, Bifur had stared into the eyes of a hungry wolf once, decades past in the dead o’ winter. What he read within his daughter was more savage than that starving animal. In her gray eyes, a world of acrimony smoldered, a bottomless pool of fury itching for an outlet. 

When her focus locked upon him, Bifur knew she’d found it. He struggled to breathe through lungs slow to respond, his heart aching. She’d kill him if she could. 

_It changes nothing,_ he told himself. She could slay him, and the fact would remain. She was Saldís, the wee lass who’d snuggled into his arms for bedtime stories and the woman who’d surrendered to torture to protect him. He was her adâd. He’d not flinch no matter what occurred in that head of hers. 

But by Mahal, what had changed his laughing, healing daughter into…this? ‘Twas a foolish question. The cretins’ names were Gart and Valkthor, and Bifur wished the men alive long enough so that he could kill them all over again, slow-like using naught but his fists.

“Saldís,” he whispered. 

Saldís fought to gain her feet but crashed back onto her knees. The product of the poison or from her extensive injuries? How fast would the poison work? 

“Stop moving.” Fear turned his tone sharp. “You’ll only hasten the poison’s spread.”

She snapped at him without words, her lips drawn back in a snarl.

‘Twas another dagger to the heart. His daughter was not herself. Bifur recognized that. Yet hurt, her actions did, and badly, but along with the hurt was fear. She’d speed her demise if she didn’t calm down. 

“Saldís?” Bofur interrupted in a voice kept intentionally light. “While a dwarf can only be thankful to have a niece love him so well she’d risk life and limb by entering Mordor to rescue him—her _favorite_ uncle, mind—if’n we manage to escape with our lives intact, you and I are going to be having a long chat. You keep throwing yourself into peril, and you’ll not need to attempt future rescues. My heart will not survive it.”

‘Twas a worthy attempt at humor, and Bifur could not thank his cousin more for it, but Saldís’s gaze never strayed from Bifur. With a grunt of pain, her intentions written plain as day upon her face, she crawled towards him. Her right arm, she held crooked to her side, and splotches of blood marked her slow and painful progress. 

“You should bind your wounds,” Bifur said. 

She responded not at all. Closer she crawled, whittling away the seconds. 

Bofur’s shackles rattled. From the corner of Bifur’s eye, he saw his cousin twist his shortened wrist irons out of his view, his face grim. _*What in Mahal’s name have they done to her,*_ Bofur signed. 

That, Bifur thought, would be the question, and whilst his mind was a-churning, an ugly suspicion reared its head. All of him recoiled from the notion, and violently at that. ‘Twas a foolish fear. Surely. An absurd flight o’ fancy and nothing more.

Or was it? 

Once, his Saldís had shared her fear of again becoming Akhora. That had not happened. Bifur knew what he’d seen, and he’d seen his Gêdul when first she’d been thrown into the room. She’d called Bifur adâd and looked upon him with vulnerability, not something her former self would condone. 

Nay, his daughter had not become Akhora once more. The infant and fearful suspicion growing in his gut whispered she’d been traumatized and abused until Akhora had emerged separately. Was that even possible, two distinct personalities coexisting in one body? 

It made a sick sense given her earlier, hurtful words. Akhora would have no caring for Finnin. Nay, if Bifur’s fears proved true and Akhora dwelled alongside his Saldís, she’d view Finnin, Bifur and Bofur as impediments, weaknesses. Saldís’s love for them was sure to make it so. 

Broken. Could any soul truly fracture so much? On its surface, the idea sounded preposterous, but Bifur’s fatherly instincts insisted he’d the right of it.

“My Saldís,” Bifur said softly, testing. “My Gêdul.”

Venomous gray eyes bored into Bifur’s. If it was possible to scorch a dwarf with glare alone, Bifur knew he’d have been but a pile of ash on the spot. “Don’t call me that,” she growled. _“Saldís_ is a weakness I will divest myself of once and for all.” 

From her own lips, confirmation. Bifur shuddered, his heart breaking. _Oh, my daughter. My poor, broken lioness._ In the periphery, Bifur saw Bofur’s gaze rush from father to daughter and back again, his eyes wide.

The smile that curved Saldís’s lips sent another shudder through Bifur, for it drove the point home. This was not his Saldís. 

Bifur’s mind returned to the woman his daughter had been back in Dale. Even that cold lass had been a mild pussycat compared to what he now saw. The splitting, if that was indeed what had happened, had left Akhora all the more bestial. A creature of hatred, she was…but still his daughter. 

“Your death should do the trick,” she said through clenched teeth. She winced suddenly, her lips twisting into a grimace. It halted her for no more than a second. 

She needed care, by Durin! Bifur again pitted his strength against his wrist irons, endeavoring to free a hand from the metal rings, he cared not which one. He’d lose skin and count himself well paid, but pull as he did, there was no budging. The shackles were too tight and his hands too confoundedly big. 

“If you’re gone, _she_ will have no reason to fight me,” Akhora panted. 

“She?” Bofur echoed. A short look turned Bifur’s way. _*She?*_

 _*She’s meaning Saldís,*_ Bifur signed in return. _*This is Akhora.*_ There was no doubt left. 

Bofur rocked as if punched. 

_Mahal, my Gêdul._ Saldís and Akhora battled for supremacy, and Akhora at least was bent upon obliterating her other half. What damage did such self-destruction do? 

A cold chill brushed him. What would happen if she succeeded in stamping out a whole part of herself?

Of one thing Bifur was certain—Akhora or Saldís, the name didn’t matter. This fractured woman was his daughter, and he loved her. Mahal himself had delivered her to Bifur as a babe, hadn’t he, now? He’d marked her with that rune to confirm it. Aye, she was as much his daughter as if he’d sired her himself. He would never abandon her. 

“You are her,” he said slowly, feeling his way. “Only one woman kneels before me, my Saldís, no matter what you believe.” 

Ignoring the pain plaguing his own body, Bifur lowered himself to a squat, sitting on his raw, blistered ankles and straining thigh and calf muscles already screaming their own complaints. His arms stretched overhead, constrained by his bonds. ‘Twas a vulnerable position. He wore naught to protect him but trousers shortened by the Mouth’s accursed magical flames. 

Akhora reached him, and a dark triumph lit her features. “You’re right. There is only one. Me. It’s time for Saldís to die and take her sniveling emotions with her. The poison may win, but by the Eye, I will first destroy _her_ …” Hostile eyes bored into him. “…by removing _you._ With you and her dwarf lover gone, she’ll have no reason to exist. She’ll never raise her head again.”

That, Bifur feared, was naught but truth, and ice shards cut his innards to ribbons. If her hands killed him as she had Finnin, there’d be no coaxing Saldís to the surface again, not in a thousand thousand years.

Akhora reared up onto her knees, grimacing. Her left hand reached out and grabbed hold of Bifur’s throat. Bifur’s heart pounded loud in his ears, but he did not act. Not yet. He’d not bring more harm on his daughter by fighting her if it didn’t become necessary. _Mahal, let it not become necessary._ Thus far, Akhora did nothing to close off his windpipe.

Her scowl deepened, yet the hand upon his throat tightened not one bit. “No,” she hissed, and the hairs on his nape lifted at the malice she directed inward. “You do not control me.”

Saldís?

Her hand wrenched backward. Her chest heaved with ragged and wheezed breaths. Akhora’s jaw hardened, and her eyes narrowed. Out flew her arm in a flat-handed strike. It halted just beyond Bifur’s chin. 

“Mahal bless me,” Bofur muttered, sagging in his chains.

Bifur leaned forward until her fingers brushed his cheek. “My Gêdul,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m not knowing all that’s happened, but I’m here.”

“Stop calling me that,” she snarled, recoiling from him.

“Saldís or Akhora, the name matters not,” he said. Bifur splayed his fingers. “’Twas these hands that delivered you. These hands that changed your diapers and fed you. I know you, lass, better than any other. You are my daughter, though I know you’re broken and hurting.”

“I am not _her.”_

“Aye, you are,” he said in a firmer voice. “You’re the angry and vengeful side, ‘tis true, but you are still my Saldís.”

Again, her gaze turned inward. Curse his beard, she was not listening. 

“I’m not her,” she repeated. “I’ll prove it.” Her head turned. Her focus fixed upon Bofur with almost audible intensity. 

Bifur’s eyes flared with realization. Before he could trap Akhora with his legs—he cared not how it would hurt either of their abused bodies—she slipped out of range. She gained her feet and tottered her way to Bofur, and from the way his cousin straightened, Bifur knew Bofur was receiving Akhora’s murderous glower. 

For a long minute, Bofur studied Akhora, his body tense. Then with nary a flicker of the eye, he relaxed. Aye, and sure as a dwarf loved his ale, Bifur’s cousin had decided upon a course of action. 

_Mahal, Bofur, for once be careful with that tongue of yours._

Bofur’s hapless-fool smile made an appearance. “Is this it then? The end of our package tour of Mordor?” Bofur inspected their surroundings. “I must say, the accommodations have been lacking, and the food, lass, is nothing to write home about,” he said as if confiding a shameful truth. “Still, if a dwarf is scheduled to exit this life, doing so at the hands of a pretty lass isn’t the worst of ways to go.” He end with a saucy wink.

Bifur blinked. Was that supposed to be a plan? Why, that wouldn’t…

 _Wait._ Akhora halted, teetering on her feet with left hand to her right shoulder. “Are you daft?” she said ominously.

“Well, the accusation is one I’ve heard often enough,” Bofur said with a cheeky grin. “If I say yes, does that get me a mint on my pillow tonight?” A pause. “No?”

“I will kill you, dwarf,” she hissed.

Bofur, bless him, bobbed his head like a right fool, smiling all the while. “Aye.” Then with a measure of concern, “You’ve already said that, lass.” He brightened. “Do I get a say on how it’s to be done?”

Bifur exhaled slowly, hope at last shining. Akhora, he realized, didn’t know what to make of this uncle of hers. Doubtless she had ample experience ignoring the pleas of her victims, but he bet himself a tankard of ale (if ever they escaped this land) that she’d never before had one jabber away so helpfully.

 _Keep her distracted,_ Bifur silently willed his cousin. If Bofur could keep her off balance a wee bit longer, mayhap Bifur would figure out a way to reach her—Saldís or Akhora, he cared not which one. He had to get her to listen. 

Or maybe his stubborn daughter would do them all a favor and faint from her wounds. ‘Twas unlikely, aye, but a dwarf could hope.

OoOoOo

__  
**North Ithilien, Gondor**  


Aragorn waited in terse silence, tension creeping up his spine with every minute that passed. At his back, the Host searched the northern horizon with him, all seeking the inbound rider Legolas had warned of but moments before. Friend? Or foe?

Aragorn’s right hand tightened around Andúril’s hilt. From the periphery, he knew archers readied their bows. None spoke. Horses picked up on their riders’ apprehension and danced in place, their tack jingling.

Elrohir’s sharp inhale drew his attention. “Elrohir?”

“Captain Mablung,” the black-haired elf answered. “He’s on an _emala_ and carries a passenger before him.” A pause. “Aragorn, it’s a Black Númenórean.”

Aragorn’s gaze flew north. His lips compressed.

So. His scouts had encountered their gravest foe—how else to explain Mablung upon an _emala_ with a Black Númenórean in tow? The question became what news Mablung brought with him and what it heralded for the Host…and Frodo.

Behind Golodir, Sivva rose to her feet, seemingly unconcerned at the way the horse shifted beneath them. Golodir murmured something Aragorn didn’t hear, and the girl scowled. She did, Aragorn noted with a brief inward smile, gingerly plant one hand on the Ranger’s shoulder to stabilize her perch. 

Movement in the distance pulled his attention from the two. Finally, Aragorn glimpsed the rider speeding towards them and inhaled with a hiss. 

The _emala_ Mablung rode looked ready to drop, its head low and wings extended to either side—an attempt to cool its body temperature, Aragorn assumed. Mablung’s passenger was limp, his arms and legs dangling. If not for the arm Mablung had locked around the him, the stranger would have fallen off the bird long ago. 

“Yanar,” Sivva said. 

She knew the passenger? A glance revealed she now twisted fingers into the fabric atop Golodir’s shoulders, her expression anxious.

Eomer nudged his mount nearer. So, too, did many of the Gray Company as Mablung closed the distance between them, the _emala_ heading right for Aragorn. No more than three minutes later, Mablung hauled back on his reins, bringing the bird to a halt inches from the king’s horse.

“Help!” Deep grooves bracketed Mablung’s eyes as they met Aragorn’s. “The lad’s been struck with Black Breath, my king,” Mablung rushed. “He’s one of Saldís’s Novices.” 

Aragorn dismounted in a hurry and lifted his arms to accept the boy from Mablung. _Lady Nienna have mercy._ Black Breath? The muscles in Aragorn’s jaw clamped down. A quick scrutiny revealed the teenager was unnaturally pale, his breaths shallow. 

“Bring him here,” came Golodir’s voice from behind.

Golodir spread his cloak upon the ground a half dozen paces away, free from the press of horses and men. Sivva hovered beside the older Ranger, her face pale and eyes wide. Ziphora glued herself to Aragorn’s side, watchful but showing signs of distress. 

Aragorn crossed to the cloak with long strides. A single sideways look gave instruction. Elrohir and Elladan nodded in unison, dismounted and began rooting through their saddlebags.

“Legolas, we need Gandalf,” Aragorn said without searching out his friend. 

“I’ll find him,” Legolas assured. A single horse neighed before galloping off. 

Aragorn gently deposited the Novice upon the cloak, aware when more _emala_ arrived and greetings flew between the Gray Company and the returned Rangers of Ithilien. Two boys in Black Númenórean uniform emerged from their midst and jogged to where Aragorn looked over their fellow. They silently positioned themselves next to Sivva and Ziphora. 

“Will he live?” Sivva asked in a small voice, one that betrayed her age like nothing Aragorn had heard previously from the touchy spitfire. 

Golodir stepped to Sivva’s side, one hand alighting on her shoulder. 

The girl jumped, and a dagger appeared in her fist. Her startled eyes turned irritated before she sheathed the blade and faced forward. “I almost stabbed you,” she accused. “Protect your king, old man. I don’t need it.” 

Golodir let his hand drop but stayed by Sivva’s side. 

Under other circumstances, Aragorn would have smiled. Yes, children were the answer to Golodir. Where before the older man had been prone to outbursts of uncontrolled anger, the Ranger now had a tight rein on his emotions. Doubtless the anger remained, but the Novices—Sivva to a larger extent—granted Golodir a much needed leash. 

It was a weight off the king’s already burdened shoulders. So long as the Novices remained among them, he no longer needed to fear Golodir throwing himself into danger in search of death. 

“Sauron got him,” one of the boys said, he of dark skin and black hair.

Aragorn stiffened. Sauron? Black Breath had only before been associated with a brush with one of the Nine. Words demanding explanation piled onto Aragorn’s tongue, but Ziphora spoke first. 

The older girl whirled on the boys. “How? What are you three _doing_ here?”

Good questions. Questions Aragorn wished answered. “Report, Mablung.”

Aragorn assessed his patient’s pulse, frowning at the clammy feel of his skin. Elrohir and Elladan dropped to Yanar’s opposite side and dumped their healing supplies between them. Without direction, one took a handful of athelas and crushed it beneath Yanar’s nose. The other unscrewed a jar of fragrant oil—Aragorn smelled rose, lavender, and rosemary—and started to rub it into the boy’s pulse points. The twins softly began a healing verse in Quenyan.

Aragorn joined his voice to theirs. A sharp look commanded Mablung to proceed. 

The other Ranger squatted near Yanar’s feet, elbows on his knees and a tired expression on his weathered face. “My Rangers and I encountered a small team of Black Númenóreans about eight miles north of the Southrons. From what we saw, it was a force primarily of Arcanists.”

“They were to reinforce the ambush,” Eomer concluded flatly. The tall blond stepped closer, two of his Rohirrim advisers with him. 

“So we concluded,” Mablung said with a nod. “But their plans were foiled.” Mablung gestured to Yanar and the two boys. “By these three.”

The dark-skinned boy lifted his chin, his shoulders back. “I’m Kyvin. This here is Rizhir,” he said. The back of Kyvin’s hand tapped the chest of the shorter boy, one with elfin features and pale blond hair cut spiky short. 

A filament of amusement penetrated Aragorn’s worry, for Rizhir looked more like Legolas with his blue eyes, delicate bone structure and slender build than any man among the Host. One could easily mistake him for an elf but for his ears and that hair. No elf would consent to sporting such a hairstyle.

Aragorn dipped his head, acknowledging the introductions. The healing song never faltered from his lips.

“Can you help him?” Rizhir asked in a tight voice.

“We will certainly try,” interrupted Gandalf. Relief spread through Aragorn at his friend’s arrival. The White Wizard knelt beside Elladan. With one hand to Yanar’s shoulder, Gandalf closed his eyes and began to chant. 

Mablung cleared his throat. “The Novices doused the food supplies of most of the Black Númenóreans with purge weed,” he resumed. “Their betrayal was discovered shortly before my team found them. When we arrived, the Arcanists were bandying about spells in an attempt to find our Novices.”

“We were sight shielded,” Kyvin said. “Yanar ordered Rizhir and me to run while he attacked. He ordered us to get word to you about the ambush.”

“We didn’t listen to him,” Rizhir confessed. “Not at first.”

Kyvin nodded his agreement. “We don’t abandon teammates.” He smoothed down hand down his black hair, halting at the nape where a thong contained it. “But then _he_ showed up.” Kyvin’s jerk of the chin towards Mordor told Aragorn exactly who the teenager spoke of. “We’re Novice-Arcanists,” he confessed, his expression turning wary. “’S why we were chosen. We’re the three strongest among Ib-Saldís’s team.”

Child sorcerers. Mutters arose among pockets of the Swan Knights and Rohirrim, but Aragorn and Eomer’s uplifted hands silenced them. “Silence,” Eomer barked. “Do not judge them. If not for these three, we would be walking into a trap bolstered by sorcerers.”

 _Well said, Eomer._ At the other king’s words, the distrust upon Kyvin’s face diminished. 

Kyvin’s dark eyes returned to Aragorn. “We hadn’t been using our magics, not since we entered Mordor. We all noticed a change in our pendants. But three against thirty adults? We had to. So when Yanar shielded himself and attacked to give us time, we did the same until Sau—” The boy paused, a narrowed-eyed look shooting towards Mordor. “Until _he_ must’ve noticed what was going on. I felt him,” he told Aragorn, and given how serious the boy looked, Aragorn believed him. “It was like he used the pendants to peek at us.”

Rizhir nodded jerkily. “I felt him in my head, too.”

“He attacked Yanar.” Kyvin’s right hand balled into a fist at his side. “And our pendants started to glow. We ditched ‘em and ran.” 

“You did the right thing,” Mablung said softly. 

Kyvin tossed his head in an emphatic no. “Don’t leave teammates,” he said, the words sounding like a quote.

“If you hadn’t,” Mablung said, “and my Rangers had not discovered you, the Host would have marched forward, confident we could turn tables on that ambush. We’d have been wrong.”

Kyvin growled and turned away, facing Mordor. “We messed up,” he said thickly. “We _messed up.”_

The healing song concluded. Aragorn checked Yanar. The boy’s color looked better, his breaths deeper. Behind his closed eyelids, Yanar’s eyes fluttered. 

A good sign, but this was but the first battle in a longer war. The boy would be in danger until he fought his way to consciousness. 

“I’ll brew a tea of athelas,” Elladan murmured before rising to do so.

Aragorn nodded absently, his attention returning to Yanar’s companions. “You did well, Kyvin, Rizhir.” 

Kyvin spun on him. “Don’t you get it? Because of us, Sau— _he_ —knows we all betrayed him.” The boy’s finger stabbed towards Mordor. “Our teammates are all stuck in there, and _he knows we betrayed him.”_

Aragorn blanched. Gandalf shot to his feet, eyes blazing with alarm. Eomer’s expression turned grim and hard, and Legolas and Gimli leaned into one another. Legolas’s hand found its way to Gimli’s far shoulder. 

Aragorn’s eyes sought Gandalf’s. “We must ride, and fast. Our diversion will be needed by more than just Frodo.”

Gandalf grunted his agreement.

“Diversion?” Kyvin demanded.

“We will explain en route.” _And Valar grant the Novices survive long enough for us to aid them._ An inner voice whispered the Host would be far, far too late—perhaps those brave young souls had already been slain—but if even one child’s life could be saved, the Host must try. It would take the better part of the day at a punishing pace to reach the Black Gates and command Sauron’s full attention.

Aragorn’s focus descended to Yanar. He was loath to move the boy, but he had no choice. 

“He will need you,” Gandalf said. “Myself, Elrohir and Elladan as well. We must bring young Yanar with us.”

So Aragorn had concluded. _Eru have mercy._ Little did he like carrying one already burdened by Black Breath to Mordor’s doorstep. “He rides with me. Elladan, I need that tea,” he called over his shoulder.

“But—” Ziphora instantly bristled.

“No, young one,” Golodir said. “The king is a great healer. Your friend needs him now.”  
“You will ride with me,” Elladan said to her as he rejoined them, the cup of athelas in one hand. “On my word, I will keep close to Aragorn’s side.”

“Mount up,” Aragorn commanded, rising to his feet. “There will be no further breaks. We ride to the Black Gates.” He reclaimed his saddle and accepted Yanar when Eomer handed the boy up to him. Aragorn shuffled his burden into one arm to accept the tea from Elladan.

“Aragorn, the ambush,” Eomer said.

Aragorn could have roared in frustration. They could not leave the Southrons to march after the Host. 

“With your permission, let my riders handle them,” Eomer said.

Aragorn lifted one eyebrow. “You’ll tire your horses.”

Eomer smiled, a roguish, sharp-edged smile. “The force described by Mablung is no match to my Rohirrim. They counted upon surprise to give them the advantage. They’ve lost that. Leave them to us. We’ll ensure the Southrons don’t survive to be a problem later.”

There was no real choice. “Good hunting, my friend.”

Eomer saluted before turning upon one heel and shouting commands to the Rohirrim among the Host. The sons of Rohan leaped onto their horses and extricated themselves from the Host. 

Aragorn returned to the Novice in his arms. With care, he dribbled athelas tea between the boy’s lips, gratified to see Yanar swallow. It was a good sign. 

“Come back, Yanar,” he said softly. “You are among friends. The enemy no longer holds any claim to you. Don’t listen to his lies. The sun shines. Can you feel it? The birds sing. The world has much yet to offer you.”

And it would if Aragorn had anything to say about it.

OoOoOo

Golodir had remained a silent presence beside Sivva and Ziphora as the King and the sons of Elrond tended their friend. While neither girl—or the boys, for that matter—cried or wrung hands, he read their distress in their stubbornly lifted chins, flat lips, and compressed eyebrows.

The four Novices appeared more angry than saddened. A learned response, he concluded, and a false one. That such artifice had been ingrained in teens so young told a tale that boiled Golodir’s blood. By his best guess, Ziphora was nearer to Yanar in age—sixteen, he estimated—but Sivva could be no more than thirteen. Kyvin and Rizhir appeared a hair younger. Fifteen, perhaps. All of them were far, far too young. 

_Don’t,_ an inner voice counseled. Don’t care. Don’t open himself up to the crushing grief of losing another child he would cherish if he permitted himself. 

He could no more heed that advice than he could bring his daughter back. These teens were unlike his demonstrative Lorniel, but they shared her stubborn bravery. They were soldiers, as obscene as the fact was, and they were orphans. 

Once upon a time, almost a century ago, Golodir and his wife Nenel had dreamed of a house full of children. Fate had decreed otherwise. Lorniel alone had been born to Nenel, and she had been a gift unanticipated after decades of disappointment. 

By Ranger Orodon’s reckoning back in Osgiliath, there were hundreds of children freed from Caeldor that would need homes, from infants to those Ziphora’s age. All of them would need special care and patience. Most would also need a purpose after the brutal training they’d endured.

 _Children in abundance when it is too late for Nenel._ Old bitterness flared to life as the Host readied to depart. Golodir made his way to his steed, aware that Sivva trailed him. 

It was not the children’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s, and Nenel would wish her husband to love and tend to as many of these souls as he could. Golodir could imagine doing just that…if he mustered the courage. 

And let Lorniel go.

By the Valar, it was an agonizing choice, but he knew what both Nenel and Lorniel would have wished. A shudder of release and fear shook his frame as he painstakingly and intentionally relinquished his white-knuckled hold on the resentment he’d nursed for over a year—all he had left of his daughter. 

Golodir slowed until Sivva reached his side, his gaze fixed upon Yanar and Aragorn so as not to scrutinize the young girl. That, he’d learned, made the black-haired, button-nosed sylph bristle. “The king was trained by Lord Elrond of Rivendell,” he murmured. “Do not give up hope.”

He felt Sivva’s attention rush to him, and not far away, Ziphora’s. Neither asked questions, but he sensed them nonetheless. The boys had disappeared. Off to reclaim their own mounts, he assumed.

“There is no greater healer in Arda than Lord Elrond.” Golodir pretended not to notice as Sivva edged closer to him. “If anyone on this side of the Misty Mountains can call your friend back, it will be the king.”

Ziphora departed, following Elladan to his horse with a more thoughtful expression on her face. Silence stretched between Golodir and Sivva as they reclaimed their seats upon Golodir’s horse. 

“The others are dead,” Sivva abruptly announced, her voice flat.

Golodir’s head whipped around. “You don’t know that.”

She scowled up at him with sudden hostility. “Don’t lie,” she said. “Ninety Novices against thousands of Black Númenóreans and orcs? They’re _dead.”_

He latched hold of her wrist. “It looks bad, yes. I won’t lie. On one thing you can depend, Sivva. I swear I will never lie to you.”

Hazel eyes seared into his like chipped labradorite. If he ever betrayed that vow, it would not be forgiven, and he read that easily upon her face. 

A shout, and the Rohirrim charged forward, leaving dust in their wake. Golodir waited until the thunder of their passage dulled before quietly urging, “Do not discount your friends…”

“They aren’t my friends,” she argued.

“…or mine,” he continued. His chin gestured to the Mountains of Shadow looming close to the east. “Thannor is in there. Your Saldís, the dwarves, and Anuon, too. They will not sit back and watch your teammates be cut down. If there is any way to protect them, it will be done.”

Sivva’s lips twisted. She glared towards Mordor. “Or they may all be dead.”

“Yes.” 

Her attention rushed back to him.

“Yes,” he repeated. “They may be dead. But I for one will not give up hope until I know their fates with certainty.” Golodir swallowed and found himself speaking of events he’d never thought to share. “I was captured,” he told her in a voice raw with pain, and this time, he looked towards his king for his own sake. 

Aragorn kicked his horse into a canter, taking the lead, and Golodir nudged his bay after him. Elrohir and Elladan did likewise. 

Golodir took a steadying breath. Would he ever be able to think upon the events he’d endured without them shredding his insides like shattered glass? “In Angmar,” he continued, lifting his voice above the rumble of hundreds of horses’ hooves. “I was questioned and tortured by Sauron’s servant, Mordirith.”

To one side, Halros glanced his way, eyebrows high. Golodir avoided meeting the other man’s gaze, well aware of the worry he’d caused his kinsmen.

He continued to Sivva, “I should not be here. By all rights, I should be dead or a wreck of a man wasting away in chains. There was no hope. I despaired, and Mordirith used that. He was bent upon dragging me into Shadow, corrupting me until I was no different than he.” He glanced at his audience and found Sivva and nearby Rangers rapt of attention. Radanir, one of those who’d ventured into Angmar with Golodir, fell in by Golodir’s left flank, a mixture of relief and pain upon his face. 

Poor Radanir. How the younger man had tried to wrestle Golodir free from the inner demons hounding him. He owed the man. Radanir had deserved better than to bear the sharp edge of Golodir’s tongue as he had. 

“Mordirith, too, had once been a man of nobility,” Golodir shared. “A king of men, Eanur by name. He routed the Witch-king’s army at Fornost in 1974.” A bitter snort escaped him. “The Witch-king challenged him to combat, and King Earnur rode out confident in his victory. He was never heard from again.”

He paused. How close had Golodir been to falling into the same trap as the man now calling himself Mordirith? Pride, yes, Golodir saw how that stiff-necked refusal to bend had helped to fill him with a black and uncontrolled anger. Privately, he acknowledged that his pride had burned to know he’d failed to free himself. Others had done it for him. 

A petty response, but there it was. Even freed of Mordirith, that pride had almost destroyed him. It would have succeeded had the Novices not entered the scene. 

Sivva inched closer, almost huddled against his back. “What happened?”

Golodir’s hands clenched around his reins. “Against all logic, my daughter and a handful of volunteers raided Mordirith’s seat at Carn Dum. I was saved, though at great cost.”

Great cost. The worst of costs, rather: Lorniel. She’d saved her father’s soul at the price of her life. She, he knew, wouldn’t have flinched if she’d known where her path would lead, his beloved sunshine girl. 

His gaze descended to Sivva, and shame touched him. Lorniel had bought him a future with her life. It was time he stopped railing and started doing something with it.

OoOoOo

__  
**Durthang, Mordor**  


Erynor shivered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Each inhale was a hollow bellows echoing in his skull as he slopped and skidded uphill through ankle-deep mud. His thighs and calves had long since progressed past the burn of overexertion. They were leadened, aching weights he forced to move despite their roaring complaints, the product of a brutal ascent undertaken at a demanding pace. 

Ahead, Thannor’s ghostly outline winked in and out of sight through biting sheets of sleet. Yes, _sleet,_ after too many punishing hours of toxic fumes and merciless heat. 

A part of him wondered wildly if Mordor’s lord controlled the weather itself. It sure seemed some Power had set itself against the Rangers and Novices. Or maybe, he thought tiredly, the Black Company and its Novices were just plain cursed.

To his left, the Mountains of Shadow towered like angry monsters, but the lesser Morgai had failed to keep step with its more impressive neighbor. That shorter ridge dropped away steadily to his right, exposing Erynor and the others increasingly to the Eye’s burning gaze.

Had it chosen to turn their way. 

It hadn’t. Instead, it seemed bent upon scouring the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Could it be searching for the supposed dwarf army the Novices had mentioned? 

_Doesn’t matter._ Erynor tore his gaze from the Eye and faced forward, his chin lifting to bring the last _(Eru, let it be the last)_ stretch of the Durthang Road into view. One hand clutched his unstrung bow tight enough to hurt. 

_Be there,_ he willed, wishing his eyes could pierce the darkness and sleet. If Erynor struggled, he couldn’t imagine what the wounded they’d left hidden behind the road’s last switchback experienced. If Thannor proved wrong and Durthang remained miles out of reach, a number of their charges would not be able to keep up. 

If all of them survived.

Tension stole into his neck. Berenor hadn’t looked good when Erynor had last seen him. He’d been all but senseless, but curse it, even then Berenor’s clasp on Yahzin’s dagger refused to slacken, indication of just how traumatized his brother had been. 

Frustration choked him. All of them, Rangers and Novices alike, were exhausted. They needed shelter, and they needed it now. Not after another frigid and sopping wet hour. Now. 

_For once, stay put, Baby Mule,_ he directed to an absent Yahzin. The headstrong girl hadn’t appreciated being left behind (at all) with Calenor to guard the wounded, but she’d stopped arguing when Thannor presented her with some hard truths. If Erynor, Thannor, and their select group of Novices failed to capture Durthang, Yahzin and Calenor would have to pull a miracle out of thin air to save their charges.

Erynor was grateful it wouldn’t be him facing that particular trial. If Durthing didn’t pan out, Erynor would be too dead to worry about the fallout. All in all, it was an easier outcome. He could use the rest.

Thannor slowed. His left arm shot into the air.

 _Finally._ This was it. Relief mixed with determination. 

Teens gathered around each Ranger, splitting into two teams. Erynor and his group strung their bows and readied their arrows. Thannor’s group unsheathed their swords and loaded their blowpipes.

From Calenor’s account, Durthang was sparsely defended. If the orcs had not been forewarned of the enemies headed their way, there was a good chance the Rangers and Novices could sneak up, kill the defenders and claim the old keep with minimal effort—assuming their frozen digits did not fumble their attacks. 

_After that, the real fun begins—praying for a miracle to get us out of Mordor._ They could not defend Durthang forever.

Erynor squelched the thought. One challenge was all he could handle at a time. 

“Here we go,” Erynor said in a voice pitched to reach his team. “Archers, with me.” 

He led his group in a last, slippery charge to the crown of Durthang’s road. “If you get wounded,” he called over his shoulder, “fall back. If this fails, whoever survives gets the joy of sliding downhill on his arse to warn the wounded.”

A couple muted laughs answered him. Gallows humor. What else did they have to cut through the awareness of how much was at stake?

Through the stinging sheets of sleet, Erynor at last glimpsed their target. Durthang was bigger than he’d expected, a blocky stone sentinel who backed right against the Mountains of Shadow. Its battlements, he’d learned from Calenor, were dotted with signal pyres, pyres Erynor hoped were too saturated to be of any use. 

On second thought, it didn’t matter. The Black Númenóreans knew where Erynor’s group had headed.

Erynor and his Novices slowed at the crown of the road, all of them hugging the Mountains of Shadow for what little shelter they offered. Erynor’s eyes swept the half-moon shaped landing at Durthang’s feet. 

From Durthang’s position, all of Mordor was on display. The landing stretched some forty yards out before ending an in abrupt drop, proof the Morgai had given up attempting to keep up with the Durthang Road.

The berm was empty. Silent. On the keep’s ramparts, there was no sign of movement. Had the weather driven the orcs indoors? 

“The windows look clear,” Gylmal whispered at his side.

Erynor grunted his agreement. Durthang’s narrow, rectangular windows were black and empty. It begged the question: where were the defenders? “The orcs have to be here somewhere,” he said. Were hidden bows even now aiming at Erynor and his archers? 

Erynor nocked an arrow, aware that the kids did the same. “Spread out. Keep low.”

He raced onto the berm, hugging the drop to keep as much distance between his team and potential orc archers as possible. Erynor trusted that his Novices would prove adept enough to handle the distance. Orcs…less so. 

An arrow whizzed his way, missing his thigh by inches. Gylmal returned fire, and an orc fell from battlements suddenly crawling with movement. 

_Good eye, Gylmal._ Erynor kept running until he reached the midpoint, outermost edge of the half-circular landing. There, he dropped to one knee and lifted his bow, seeking his first target. The Novices took up position to either side of him, spacing themselves evenly.

Erynor fired, drew another arrow, nocked it, and fired again. When his Novices were all in position and firing, he issued a shrill whistle. 

Under his team’s protective barrage of arrows, Thannor’s group dashed towards the fortress gates. Shouts erupted in Black Speech, then the battlements got a lot busier. 

_That’s more than a handful, Calenor._ His brother’s math skills needed serious work. 

Erynor continued firing, the familiar thwap of bowstrings filling the air.

OoOoOo

Thannor skated through the mud, struggling to keep his feet under him as he sprinted for Durthang’s open gate before the orcs… _Too late!_ He slid into a rusted iron portcullis a split second after it clanged down. Beyond the grate, orcs loomed like giants thanks to flickering torchlight that granted them elongated shadows. With spears lifted overhead, the foul creatures jeered.

A growl of pure frustration escaped between Thannor’s clenched teeth, and he kicked the grating. Taunting laughter erupted from within.

Thannor whirled to his audience. In Black Speech, he spat, _“Mirdautas vras.”_ (It is a good day to kill.) Then with a flat smile, he added the insult. _“Lul gijak-ishi.”_ (“Flowers in the blood”, or elf)

Orcs roared their fury and charged the portcullis. Spears jabbed through the grate, a few perilously close to reaching him.

Thannor leaped backwards and dropped low on hands and knees, mud squelching between his fingers. He trusted that by removing himself as an obstacle, his young allies would seize upon the opportunity the orcs unwittingly presented. 

They didn’t disappoint. Darts flew over Thannor’s head, a deadly swarm of tipped gnats. Any noise of their passage was drowned out by drumming sleet and snarling orcs. 

Thannor permitted himself a small smile. These orcs would pay for underestimating troops dressed as Black Númenóreans. Most might be children, but they were deadlier than any undisciplined orc.

Orcs snarled and batted at the small darts as they connected. They had no idea of their peril. They couldn’t and be so unconcerned. 

That changed when the front ranks abruptly dropped, their bodies convulsing and foam leaking from their lips. The newly exposed ranks shuffled backwards uneasily…and this time, when a volley of darts came their way, they recognized their danger. One orc issued a throaty, alarmed call, and in seconds, the room beyond the portcullis emptied, but not before the Novices brought down another seven foes.

 _We’d best not have driven these to the battlements, or Erynor is not going to be pleased._ Though after this show, Thannor doubted any of these orcs would be willing to risk exposing itself to the Novices and their blowpipes. 

The sense of urgency driving him escalated, and Thannor jumped to his feet. “Well done,” he said. “Very, very well done.” 

He backed up, carefully edging beyond the portcullis alcove to eye Durthang’s austere face. Above, he saw no signs of defenders. The occasional arrow flew up there, but he saw no return fire. 

Good. Erynor’s team had driven the orcs on the battlements to seek shelter. 

Tahal stepped to the portcullis and peered into the spacious stone hall beyond. He scowled at something out of Thannor’s sight. The portcullis lever, Thannor assumed. He, too, had noted its position. Unsurprisingly, the builders of the keep had placed it well out of reach of invaders. 

“We’ll need another way in,” Tahal commented, his face pale from cold and his forelock a sopping coil batting his nose.

“We try the battlements,” Thannor said. “If that avenue is barred to us, we rappel down to the windows.”

Tahal’s teeth flashed in a brief grin. “The designers never imagined an army of kids assaulting it. At least six of us can fit through those windows with ease.”

Thannor bit back words of denial. Eru knew they had no choice, but sending the Novices to invade Durthang—the youngest and smallest of them, to boot—did not sit well with him. 

“Got no choice,” Tahal said, correctly reading Thannor’s face. 

“No, we don’t.” _Curse it._ One hand fisted, but he forced it to release, forced his mind to discard his objections. They had to take Durthang, and they had to do it swiftly. The Dark Lord had permitted these Novices to escape, and Thannor couldn’t shuck the suspicion the Dark Lord had something special in mind to punish these little ones. The Rangers and Novices required the shelter Durthang offered. 

“So be it. Get them ready, Tahal,” Thannor murmured. Climbing the cliffs at Durthang’s back in sleet would be perilous. He only hoped Erynor’s group had convinced the orcs to abandon the battlements. 

A quick thought. Leaving Durthang’s entrance unguarded would be folly. There was no telling how many orcs remained inside given how inaccurate Calenor’s previous estimate had proved. Thannor needed another Novice to… 

_Him._ He chose the first Novice he could put name to. “Kizon?” He waited until the stocky, thick-featured boy turned his way. “Pick a friend. I need two of you to make sure orcs don’t escape through that portcullis.”

The boy nodded shortly, the glower on his face never fluctuating. Without word, the boy snagged the forearm of the tallest girl on the team—Thannor didn’t know her name—and pulled her to the portcullis, all without a word spoken. Once beneath the overhang, Kizon gestured the girl to the opposite side of the alcove. 

Not one for words, it seemed.

Satisfied, Thannor hurried to catch up with the rest of his charges. They had assembled themselves at the base of the cliffs abutting Durthang. Ropes emerged from pockets and belt loops, and the teens efficiently tied themselves together at the waist. Though they were drenched and shivering with cold, none betrayed any sign of uncertainty. 

A harrowing half hour later, Thannor stood on the both blessedly and frustratingly empty battlements. As he’d feared, Erynor’s assault had driven the orcs inside, and the trapdoor accessing the battlements was latched shut. There would be no moving it from the invaders’ side of the door. 

With arms braced on the stone balustrade, Thannor watched as the six smallest Novices rappelled down from the roof to two windows randomly selected by Tahal. Both targets hovered midway between battlements and ground, the idea being that the lowest and highest floors were more likely to be heavily guarded. 

Every muscle on Thannor’s frame tightened as he awaited the outcome of the events he’d put into motion. _Protect them,_ he directed to Eru and the Valar. _Oh please, protect them._

Thyndo and slender Zajah were the first to reach a window. Thannor saw Erynor’s team following the two closely, their bows nocked and ready to defend them, though how effective any would be with two kids obstructing their line of sight was debat—

An orc roared. Thannor gripped the stone rail and leaned farther out to better keep watch on his Novices.

Thyndo jumped outward, using the rope to swing away a split-second before a spear thrust into view. Zajah made herself small to one side of the window as an arrow exited the aperture and headed right for Thyndo. It slammed into the child’s thigh before he could react.

Thyndo made no sound, though his body jerked. Despite the rope’s rotation, Thyndo went on the attack. His wrist flicked, and a dagger flew into the keep. 

Thannor’s grip on the battlements turned punishing. He’d never felt so helpless, watching a child hanging there so exposed. Yet there was nothing Thannor could do!

Someone else, however, was not so constrained. One of Erynor’s team fired. An arrow sliced past Thyndo—too close for comfort—and disappeared through the window. 

Orcs shouted, and Thyndo’s return swing delivered him to the window. The boy grabbed the frame with both hands and kicked inward with his uninjured leg. 

The child must have landed a good blow, for an orc bellowed in complaint. Thyndo cut himself free from the rope with another dagger and disappeared into Durthang. Zajah took his place in the window, blowpipe to her lips. She, too, vanished inside, and after her a blond Novice Thannor believed was named Hravin. 

At the second window, Ilhia and two others entered without encountering resistance. More of the Novices slid down ropes and squeezed through the slit windows to join their teammates. 

Thannor was left with the seven largest of the Novices on the battlements, his arms braced upon the rail and head bowed. 

_Please,_ he prayed again. Let him not have led these teenagers to their deaths.

OoOoOo

The next fifteen minutes were the longest of Thannor’s life. By the time his ears detected the muted groan of the portcullis retracting, his fingers felt welded to the balustrade. A minute later, the trapdoor behind him issued a clunky squeal and dropped open.

Durthang was theirs.

At Thannor’s command, Erynor departed to collect Calenor’s charges while Thannor and the Novices organized a watch and began the tedious task of searching the old fortress from top to bottom. Missing even one orc could equal disaster. 

They’d scarcely begun when the wounded arrived. Yahzin tracked Thannor down and glued herself to his side. Her tight-lipped expression dared him to order her elsewhere. 

Thannor’s lips twitched. He knew the signs of a woman ready to erupt. He swallowed his objections and instead thanked her for her aid. 

Baby Mule. Thannor had heard the moniker Erynor had bestowed on his new daughter, and while he’d never use it aloud, the name brought a smile to his heart, one bolstered by memory of the banter he’d witnessed between Erynor and Yahzin. Soon, he hoped, Berenor would have that same easy camaraderie with her as the blond Brother. 

_Should any of us live so long._ The inner smile wilted, replaced by fear. Would these two, precious children of Thannor’s have the opportunity to get to know one another?

The question kept him awake and prowling Durthang’s passages long after the keep was deemed clear of enemies. No matter how stacked the odds were against them, Thannor intended to buttress Durthang’s defenses to their peak. Should Sauron or the Black Númenóreans attack, he would make the offensive a costly one. 

Calenor was dispatched to bring Dori, Anuon, and Finnin to join them. Fires were stoked in hearths (Thannor praying all the while they had been maintained), clothes were shucked and hung to dry, and what food the group had managed to flee with was rationed and doled out. Only then did those with later watch duty settle down for what sleep they could catch. 

Thannor continued to assess Durthang’s defenses, Yahzin and (later) Gylmal and Tahal at his side. 

The enemy would come for them. They had to be ready.

OoOoOo

__  
**_The Isenmouthe, Mordor_ **  


Ciryan crashed to the ground, felled by the Mouth’s backhanded slap. In Ciryan’s absence, everything had unraveled, and his mind clanged with a mixture of fear, shock, and anger. 

The Novices had been unmasked as traitors. If Ciryan had known that, he’d have run for it hours ago. Better to die in the attempt to escape than to meekly give himself over to the Mouth. 

What had happened to his teammates? Where was his sister?

 _They’re dead._ So said reason. The cold knot in his belly grew colder. 

They were dead—that or he bet they wished they were—and when hard hands dragged him upright, he saw a broken body too small to be anything but another Novice discarded to one side of the street. Farther down, another undersized corpse collected flies.

Ciryan swallowed a knot of bile. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. The Novices were going to be heroes. They were supposed to rescue the dwarves and that Ranger and _escape._

Panic clawed at his throat. He didn’t want to die like this, tortured or executed. When he’d ridden into Mordor, it had been with the expectation that if the worst happened—and he’d told himself it wouldn’t—he’d go down fighting shoulder to shoulder with his teammates. Not…this. 

Ciryan thrashed and fought like a wild animal, but his weapons were ripped from him along with most of his clothes, leaving him barefoot and naked but for his braies. He didn’t stop fighting until a hard fist dropped him to his knees. Hands again forced him upright. Before Ciryan could muster the strength to argue the tight grip caging him, the Mouth lifted his chin. 

Black, black eyes stared down at Ciryan. Discolored teeth flashed as the Mouth smiled its scarily gentle smile. “You are fortunate,” it said.

Ciryan shivered. With difficulty, he found his voice. “H-How do you f-figure that?” 

The smile vanished. “I have no time to play. That, you can thank your commander for. So, a quick death for you.”

Quick death? That didn’t sound so bad. Better than— _Orc spit._ The Mouth’s face suddenly lit with fiendish delight. Ciryan had no doubt he wouldn’t like what the Mouth was about to do, and a tremor vibrated up his frame. 

“Oh, this should be amusing,” the Mouth crooned. It turned its smile onto a nearby Weapon. “Throw him in with his commander.” It’s fingers tapped before its chest with dark glee. “Give him a dagger, too. Inform Akhora I have an antidote to the poison spreading through her veins. If she pleases me in the way she kills this Novice, I might be persuaded to give it to her.”

Poison? Akhora? The Mouth had Saldís? Ciryan’s heart slammed against his breastbone. She’d never turn on one of the Novices. A whisper soft doubt lifted its head. _Would_ she? 

“Either she’ll believe my words and ensure this Novice is punished creatively, or she won’t,” Ciryan heard the Mouth chortle lightly as Ciryan was dragged away. “In the end, it doesn’t matter. The Novice will die at the hands of the woman who led him astray. The poison will make sure of that.”

 _What?_ Ciryan’s head whipped around, but the Mouth no longer faced him.


	62. Meltdown

_**Ost Egla, Mordor** _

Adâd lived. 

The shock had ripped through Saldís like a gale, blasting away every scrap of hatred and fury, and leaving her…depleted. Even as she scrabbled for purchase on a raging Akhora bent on revenge, Saldís’s soul felt an ancient and battered dinghy unequal to the task of riding out the inner storm. With each crashing wave, the dinghy sprang more leaks, and Saldís choked on despair until she drowned in it. 

_Not Adâd,_ she chanted to herself as if by words alone she could muster the will to fight on. Soon…very soon…Saldís would fail. When that happened, Bifur and Bofur would die. 

…She’d killed Finnin…

Her fault. Like Finnin, Bofur and Bifur’s demise would be _her fault._ ‘Twas _Saldís_ who had permitted hatred and fury to devour her, feeding Akhora until her other self was bloated with strength. ‘Twas _Saldís_ who had refused to relinquish wrath even after she’d recognized the danger. 

_I’m sorry, Adâd._ Weak words. Inadequate words. What good did they do? Did they erase the damage she’d caused? Did they heal the wounds her tongue delivered?

She cursed the Valar for ever giving her breath. Why give her life when she destroyed all she touched? 

…She’d killed Finnin… 

Akhora attempted to grab hold of Bofur, and Saldís wrestled her. Saldís propelled her feet backwards and her arms to her sides. Horrible words spewed from Akhora’s lips, aspersions on Bofur’s parentage mixed with scathing mockery. 

Why did Saldís fight? Could a wraith be worse than she? 

_Yes,_ a single strand of herself insisted. _Do not give in to hopelessness._

Saldís surveyed that strand of dogged obstinacy with bleak eyes. _Don’t give up. Don’t surrender,_ it exhorted. She couldn’t find it in herself to heed it. She was doomed, and Bifur and Bofur were as well. 

… _She_ had killed Finnin…

The poison was spreading. Saldís didn’t think Akhora was properly aware of it, not yet, but then again, her other self was chaos personified, rage given form. There was little coherence left within that part of herself. 

Nay, ‘twas Saldís who noted the changes, Saldís who watched a deepening darkness creep into her Akhora-self with the feeling of inevitability. That side of her was so corrupted with hatred—a hatred she’d fueled, curse her soul—that she supposed it was unavoidable that the poison would find purchase there. 

Like called to like, and Akhora was evil. Maybe all of Saldís was.

_You will not stop me,_ Akhora hissed as Saldís managed to halt an elbow from slamming towards Bofur’s throat. By Mahal, she could feel her uncle’s eyes on her. His clueless grin was a lie. She could feel him calling to her, his heart to hers. 

It pulverized the remaining pieces of her heart into a fine powder. She was failing him.

_Die,_ Akhora howled.

No. 

Akhora paused and changed her approach. In a silken voice, she said, _Let me have them, and I promise an easier death than a wraith would deliver._

No. 

Akhora exploded in fury, snarling aloud. _You misbegotten runt-lover!_

“Gêdul, come to me,” they heard Bifur entreat. 

If only Saldís could. She shuddered, so very tired. 

…She’d killed Finnin…

Akhora would win this war. It was inevitable. Saldís didn’t want to fight anymore. She longed to join Finnin, but even that end was denied to her. No, she’d become a wraith and dish out more death, more pain and suffering. 

The dungeon door clanged open, startling her. Bodies filled the aperture, a tall man at the front. “I have a present for you, Akhora,” the unknown Weapon said. The smirk hidden behind his scarf was betrayed by his voice. 

She barely heard his words, her attention consumed by that unbarred and open door. ‘Twas a chance. Everything in her seized upon it. The door represented a last chance to die a clean death, a permanent one. _Better that than the alternative,_ Saldís thought, and Akhora thrummed in agreement.

_Go,_ both sides of her shouted. 

Akhora sprang at the open doorway, desperation overcoming her body’s limitations. She…they…had to reach it before the fool and his cronies closed it. In the back of their minds, Saldís and Akhora both knew the men played with her. Kimilzor would never permit so easy an escape, but game or not, by Durin she couldn’t not try. 

Bofur and Bifur hollered—at least, she thought they did—but there was no room for meanings. The Weapons flung someone at her feet. Akhora jumped over…him?…her? She cared nothing about who or what had joined Kimilzor’s miserable game. Only one thing mattered: reaching her enemies and taking as many of them as she could with her to the grave.

The closest Weapon chucked a smaller object after the new arrival, and it streaked by in a blur. She almost failed to identify it in time. Almost. 

Her eyes flared. A blade? Her left hand snatched it from the air. Her grip adjusted, preparing it for a strike. She...was…almost…there. 

Akhora crashed into the door as it slammed shut. She screamed and rammed the back of her fist against the metal slab. Chuckles floated through from the other side.

Failure. Saldís hung her head, aware when the poison nibbled away another small bit of her Akhora-self’s lucidity. Finnin’s bracelet hung heavy about her wrist, a silent condemnation. Her love had been pure, stiff-necked dwarven stubbornness mixed with honor and humor. He’d roll over in his grave if she met her end a wraith. 

Akhora whipped around. _By the Eye,_ Saldís heard her other self snarl. Akhora palpitated with an instant and fierce need for violence. 

‘Twas tempting to let Akhora have her way. They were damned anyway—the newcomer, Bifur, Bofur and herself. _All of Middle Earth,_ the poison suggested slyly. Fighting only lengthened their suffering. 

Ib-Niarvo’s voice penetrated the door, muffled but distinct and laced with boredom—a sure sign the woman was anything but. “The Mouth sends his regards, Akhora, and a message. Make the Novice’s death torturous enough, and he might be inclined to give you the antidote.” A pause. _“If_ you please him.”

_Liar,_ both halves of Saldís labeled it, one a growl, one a defeated whisper. There was no antidote. Akhora kicked the door with one heel before turning cold eyes on the… 

Wait. Had Niarvo said Novice? Fear lifted Saldís’s head. 

The Novice twisted to face her. _Ciryan,_ she identified numbly. He was one of hers. She knew him, his prickly pride, his stubborn determination, his keen and observant mind. He had such potential—she’d thought it more than once—and someday, Ciryan would be a very dangerous man. A _good_ one, she’d hoped.

If he was permitted to grow up. 

Instead of firing her with purpose, the thought became a lodestone dragging her leaking dinghy under. She didn’t have it in her to fight anymore. 

Saldís gave up.

Akhora rotated the dagger, lips pulled away from her teeth. _He’s mine now._

OoOoOo

Bifur’s pulse pounded in his ears like a thundering drum. “Nay!” Bifur heard Bofur shout in tandem with Bifur’s own, _“Idribtu!”_ (Stop!)

The battle had raged within his daughter for hours. The tempest within her eyes had been both terrible and agonizing for Bifur to behold. Akhora had lashed out with murderous intent more times ‘n a father could bear to witness, and some blows had come but a hair’s breadth from reaching their targets. 

With each attack, Saldís’s counter came slower. She was faltering, and Bifur’s mouth dried each time he dwelled upon it. He was losing her—not the vengeful, violent side, but his sweet lassie. Little did they need a child thrown into the mix along with the obscene offer. 

Akhora shambled forward on unsteady feet, chin low and focus fixed upon the boy. By Durin’s beard, the whites of her eyes were showing, and her teeth were bared in a feral grin. 

_“Idribtu,_ Saldís,” he commanded again. (Stop.) Frantic, he barked at the boy, _“Ithmir b’tîr.”_ (Get away from there.) Bifur cursed his tongue. Westron would not come!

Bifur stared at his daughter’s destruction, and well he knew it. Akhora was winning. Even now, the child scrambled away as Bifur’s daughter prowled after him, her face cold as winter. Her steps were choppy, uneven, but the hairs on Bifur’s neck rose nonetheless. The threat pouring off of her said that injured and weakened or not, she was more than capable of bloodshed.

Nay, not just capable. She wanted violence, and the fact that her target was a child meant nothing to her.

It would mean everything to Saldís. Harming the lad would lay waste to any fragment remaining of her, and Bifur’s skin pebbled as a feverish feeling swept over him. He could not permit this to happen. No matter the cost, he had to win free, and he had to do it anon. 

Bifur eyed his shackles. There was no wrenching the bolts free that held his chains to the wall. That, he’d tried before. What he hadn’t tried, what hadn’t even occurred to be before this moment…

His lips flattened. The pain would be immense, and he’d half cripple himself, but Bifur counted the cost piddling. He’d pay it.

With Bofur’s choked pleas for Saldís to “Fight, curse you!” filling the room, Bifur flexed his fingers one last time. Gritting his teeth and giving himself no time for doubts, he pummeled the hand against the wall with all his muscle, his whole body behind the swing. 

If the only way to free himself was to break bone, then break bone, he would. 

His left hand erupted with unbelievable pain, a pain that intensified when he rammed the hand against stone a second time. A moan escaped him, and his stomach folded itself into a nauseating knot. Gooseflesh broke out upon his skin. 

The feverish chills of earlier returned with a vengeance, but Bifur was undeterred. He next bent his full strength—a _dwarf’s_ strength—to force his mangled hand through the wrist shackle. Like as not, the appendage would never again be the same, even if by some miracle a healer could be found, and swiftly at that. 

There was another excruciating _snap_ as he encountered resistance when forcing his hand free. Tears pricked Bifur’s eyes at the sharp and miserable pain, but he paused not one second. His right hand received the same merciless treatment.

He was loose. 

Bifur floundered to gain his feet, finally resorting to leaning upon the wall and sliding upwards to stabilize his balance. Hot and cold flashes rushed through his body. Cradling hands to his chest, he absorbed the tableau before him through tear-distorted eyes. Small jerks shook his frame, aftershocks of torment. 

None had noticed his actions. Bofur alternated between beseeching their lass and outright insulting her, his aim to draw her from the lad, Bifur was sure. Never had his cousin’s face been more haggard or intent. The lad ducked and weaved on bare feet, his expression dominated by determined lines but his pale eyes were wide. Thus far, the boy had but a single cut across his forearm and a split lip. 

Angry, the lad looked. Aye, and hurt. There was a wounded vulnerability lurking behind that brave facade that Bifur could not explain, but it angered him nonetheless. His Saldís would never willingly bring harm to a wee one. 

Akhora…raged. There was no other word for it. Snarling, she lashed out at her uncle, leaving a shallow slice o’ blood across his bare chest—only Bofur’s quick twist averted worse—but then she struck at the teen. The boy dropped and rolled to the other side of the room, his short black hair all askew. 

_‘Tis time to be ending this._

Akhora lurched after the lad, her teeth bared and her eyes… Mahal, hers were the eyes of a rabid animal. She sprang forward with a sudden burst of speed. The dagger arced. The lad recoiled. 

Bifur stepped between them. What next happened transpired so fast there was little time but to react. The blade punched into Bifur’s upper arm—the left, and by Durin, he felt it skid across the bone before slamming deeper—and Akhora crashed into his chest. Bifur wrapped arms around her and took her to the ground. One arm locked her back to his chest. The other forced her head beneath his chin. Both legs trapped her as tight as any serpent could manage. 

Stiff shock turned to violent writhing, but Bifur’s clutch had her trapped. She was not winning free o’ him. 

Akhora, ornery lass that she was, did her utmost to make keeping hold of her as tricky and painful as she could. Bifur swallowed a cry as they rolled across the floor, briefly squashing his broken hands beneath them. Spikes of agony shafted upwards through his arms, causing his grip to slacken. 

He squeezed her all the tighter, ignoring the many shouting complaints his battered body made. _I’ll not lose you, Nathith._ (Daughter) 

Bofur shouted at him—that, Bifur heard right enough—but not one of Bofur’s words reached him, and Bifur had not the attention to spare to ferret out his cousin’s meaning. Bofur could not help him, regardless. This was about Bifur and his daughter. 

Akhora writhed, an escalation in tension his sole warning something had snagged her interest. What could…? Bifur cursed. As sure as a dwarf prided himself on his beard, it was the dagger that had drawn her eye. She wanted it, and badly.

He couldn’t permit her to get hold of it. “The knife,” Bifur bit out in Khuzdul, eyes seeking the boy. 

The lad shifted from foot to foot, uncertain, but when Bifur’s gaze pointedly slid to where the dagger protruded from his arm, the boy followed him well enough. The lad nodded shortly and crept closer with ginger steps. He was ready to skitter out of harm’s way at the slightest sign of danger. 

“Hurry,” Bifur gasped, muscles straining to contain his lass.

The boy darted in and jerked the blade free. Akhora howled in fury, legs kicking between Bifur’s. Doubtless the lad received one of her lethal glares as he retreated to Bofur’s side, and his moving lips said the lad shared words with Bifur’s cousin, but those couldn’t matter. The blade was beyond Akhora’s reach. ‘Twas enough. Bifur took a deeper breath to know he’d not be witness to his daughter murdering a child. 

_Not this day._ Not any day if he had aught to say on the matter. 

His mind raced, fumbling for an answer on what to do next. He had to reach his lass. Words impatient for voice flowed before Bifur could decide just what to say. _“Innikh dê, Gêdul.”_ (Return to me.) “Don’t you be letting hatred ‘n anger win,” he whispered. 

“Let me _go,_ you accursed dwarf!” Akhora roared.

There was no hint of his Saldís in her voice. None. _Mahal, I can’t be too late._

His lips firmed. Nay. He refused to admit defeat. His Saldís remained. He had no way of knowing why she had stopped fighting, but if she had not the will to battle on, he did. He would fight in her stead. For _all_ of her.

He was her adâd. ‘Twas the label he’d worn with more pride than any other. Toymaker, cousin, warrior, he’d been each, but above them all, he was this courageous, beautiful, and tortured woman’s father, and if he had aught to say about it, he’d be the saving of her. 

To that end, Bifur took up a different type of weapon…and charged into battle. He told her how much he loved her, persisting even when she drown out many of his words with angry shrieks. He shared the unspeakable joy he’d felt upon finding her alive in Dale, and how very proud he was of the way she’d put herself back together. Her life had been shattered more than once, and well did he know it. (How many times must his daughter endure such devastation?) He whispered how strong she was, how brave and fierce and beautiful.

Bifur would reach her. He didn’t care how long it took. He would not be leaving this spot without his daughter. If the poison took her, he’d not be leaving at all. He’d see her safely in her grave or be her first victim. 

Interspersed through it all was his constant refrain, _“Men lananubukhs menu.”_

A mouthful in Khuzdul, it was. In Westron, the phrase was simpler: I love you.

OoOoOo

_  
**Durthang Road, Mordor**  
_

Finnin floated upon a sea of pain and fear. Consciousness teased him, drawing near enough that the warrior sensed the arms carrying him and detected the rasp of labored breathing from a chest pressed against Finnin’s side. He gleaned little else but for the fact that he was being carted about like a damsel. 

He decided to be grateful he lived to be carried, be the fashion so ignominious or not. 

_We’re moving._ He remembered Anuon’s face, and Thannor’s, but what had happened? Had Saldís been found? Finnin endeavored to crack open his eyelids, but there was no budging them. ‘Twas frustrating enough to drive a dwarf to shouting…had he the ability.

“Hold tight, lad,” he heard Dori say. _Dori_ carried him, for Finnin had felt the rumble of Dori’s words though the body carting his. 

Finnin’s lips moved, but no sound emerged. Saldís. What had they discovered of _Saldís?_

“Just a little bit farther,” Dori panted. “And don’t you think about dying on us. Saldís will need you. You’ve all but pledged your troth, and I’ll not hear of you making a liar of yourself, do you hear me?”

Finnin could have wept. Aye, he heard. Saldís lived, and the joy of it chased away a measure of his despair. He cared not the odds against it. If Mandos called, this was one dwarf who’d be defying the Valar to the bitter end, and then he’d defy them some more. He was going nowhere without his lady. 

Saldís needed him. Dori had said it. 

‘Twas the end of the matter.

OoOoOo

_  
**Ost Egla, Mordor**  
_

 _Stop,_ Saldís pleaded with horror howling through her. Nauseating prickles rushed across every inch of Saldís-Akhora’s skin from crown to toes, prickles that had nothing to do with the Morgul blade’s poison. _Stop it!_

Akhora was hurting him—hurting _Bifur._ By Mahal, Akhora had stabbed him!

The punch of her blade into his arm, the sight of the hands Adâd had mangled to stop her from an evil act she’d never have recovered from, they had both sufficed to propel Saldís back into the fight. How could Akhora be cruel to Adâd? Akhora _was_ her, Durin curse it, or at least a part of her. How could any fragment of Saldís consent—?

_Stop it!_ she shrieked again as Akhora deliberately rolled to grind Bifur’s hands into the stone floor. Her mind gonged with a wordless and all-encompassing, _Nay!_

“Let me go, dwarf!” Akhora snarled.

_Leave him alone!_

Adâd choked on a cry, the sound like a blacksmith’s hammer with anvil to Saldís’s heart. The hammer pounded and pounded until blood splattered in all directions. _Nay! Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!_

All she sensed from Akhora in return was a mindless need to stamp out Bifur and his words, to silence him for good. Instead of bringing Akhora comfort, his attempts did the opposite, inciting her to greater fury.

“Never,” Adâd said. “I’ll never let you go. You are my daughter. _Men lananubukhs menu.”_

_Lies!_ Akhora clanged with denial. _I won’t. Be. LIED to!_

Again, Akhora attempted to roll them, and though she fought tooth and nail, Saldís had not the strength to stop her. ‘Twas Bifur who prevented the turn, his arms as unmovable as chains. She felt him swallow before he repeated, _“Men lananubukhs menu.”_

He didn’t lie. Saldís wept as that truth sank into her very _bashuk,_ her bones. She’d known it before, but now, it took on a new depth. Bifur had heard. He knew Finnin had died by her hands, yet still he battled for her? 

_Men lananubukhs menu, Adâd. I love you, too._

His words drove Akhora into a higher frenzy. Foaming at the lips, she was, and Saldís shivered, wide-eyed, as a wave of Darkness seemed to overshadow her. _Mahal._ Akhora would damn them if she did not stop raging.

_You are feeding it,_ she warned with panic, tugging on Akhora-bits for her other self’s attention. 

Akhora batted her aside like a pesky gnat, her focus only for Bifur. “You love _her,”_ Akhora proclaimed venomously. “It’s your precious Saldís you love. Me, you’d rather died. Admit it. I don’t—”

“That is not true, Gêdul, and I’ll not let you believe it,” Bifur growled. A twist brought them about, switching their position so that their left hips and shoulders pressed to the floor. An almost unnoticed throb from pressure to her right shoulder abated. His intention, Saldís was sure. “I love all of you, lass, not only the pretty parts.”

“Don’t. _Lie!”_

“I love your courage, your willingness to march into Mordor itself…”

“Her,” she howled. _“She_ came here, not—”

“…and I’m knowing you could stare down a whole army alone without flinching. You are brave and fierce and smart as the day is long. You’ve a keen mind for planning, and don’t be telling me ‘tis all your Saldís side, for I know that’s not so.”

_Lies,_ Akhora repeated, so furious she frothed of it like a shaken keg. The poison gulped it up like mother’s milk, spreading faster. 

_Nay,_ Saldís whispered as she watched sections of her dark self vanish within the Shadow’s inky mass. The rest of Akhora dimmed, the bitterness wafting from her growing grimmer, angrier. _He loves us,_ Saldís argued absently, a kernel of cold terror taking up residence in her heart. She did not want Bifur to witness her transformation. He’d suffered enough. More than enough. 

_Love does not exist,_ Akhora spat. _It is nothing but a tool to delude the weak._

Saldís bristled with instant and hot affront. How dare Akhora dismiss Adâd’s pain, make a mockery of it? _Look at his hands, you wretched harpy. Did he break them for fun?_ With scathing disgust, _Your bitterness blinds you._

Akhora did her own bristling, incensed at Saldís’s disgust and pity. _I will see you **dead.**_

Saldís bared her teeth. _You? Soon there will be nothing left of you. You are hastening your own demise with hate._

“Stop this,” Bifur commanded, jolting her attention from her inner struggle. His voice rough and watery, he asked, “Why, Gêdul? Why must you fight so?” His hold changed, though it remained inescapable. Bifur’s lips brushed her temple. “You hear me, and you hear me well, lass. _Men lananubukhs menu—all_ of you. I never stopped, not when time robbed me of hope, not when I learned of your fate. You’re _my daughter._ I’ll never spurn or abandon you. Never.” 

His tone turned stern, steel gloved in soft velvet. “But the same cannot be said o’ yourself. You betray yourself, and that is worse than any wound done you by others. It’s high time you stop, you hear me?”

What? ‘Twas a rare tongue-lashing, and a completely unexpected. Shock and confusion granted Saldís her tongue. “What are you—?”

“I’m speakin’ of the way you’ve ripped yourself in twain, Gêdul. You deny all the parts of yourself you don’t think measure up, casting them out and rejecting any claim on them. You so fear your darker emotions that you’ve denied any responsibility for them, but you are one person. Stop this.”

Shock. Utter, terrible shock. Saldís shook her head wildly in denial. Akhora was evil, didn’t he understand? She was hate and violence and rage. Saldís _had_ to fight her.

Adâd must have taken her silence for the rejection it was, for he shook her. “You destroy yourself,” he rasped, pain and fear leaking into this words. “I’ll not have it.”

_**He** has no say,_ Akhora spat spitefully. _The interfering runt._

Saldís’s temper kindled. _Do not call him that._

_Or you’ll do what, exactly?_ Akhora sneered. 

Enmity sparked and crackled like lightning between them. The stench of acrid hatred permeated the air. Saldís lashed out, Akhora a split-second behind. Neither had any intention of stopping until one or the other was annihilated. 

Unbeknown to either, Shadow purred as tendrils made fat on a feast of malevolence branched out with new vigor, its tainted fingers spreading into every cranny of its victim.

OoOoOo

Bifur’s heart threatened to fail him as his daughter went boneless in his grip. Her head fell to one side, granting him a terrifying glimpse of empty eyes. Her torso and limbs quaked as if with fever. “Nay!” Bifur rolled her to her back, arms pinning her to the floor. “Gêdul?”

Her lips were stuck in a snarl, they were, and icy fear told him his words had not halted the war within her. Nay, ‘twas as if he’d tossed whiskey on a smoldering fire. 

“What’s happening?” he heard the Novice demand. Pale bare feet appeared in Bifur’s periphery. “What’s wrong?” Then in sharp accusation, “What did you say to my sister?”

His…what? His _namad?_ By all seven dwarf fathers, the boy was related to his Saldís? _Mahal, it only needed this._

Bifur spared the lad no more attention—’twas not as if the boy would understand a word Bifur uttered. All Bifur’s focus, all of it, was bent upon his daughter. After kissing her forehead, his alarm growing upon discovering a new clamminess to her skin, he dropped his forehead to hers. “Saldís,” he called softly, urgently. “Stop. Whatever it is you’re doing, by Aulë’s lifted hammer, _stop._ Do you hear me?” His voice broke, redoubled. “Don’t you do it. Don’t you dare kill yourself before me!” 

He clutched her to him, his face in her neck as he began to weep. _Nay._ Lifting tear-stained face, flinching to find hers yet contorted with such self-hatred as to undo the strongest of hearts, he smoothed hair from her face with his right forearm. “Saldís? Saldís. _Saldís!”_

What was happening? By Mahal, he’d never heard of aught like it. Was this the poison? 

It felt like her life dribbled between his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold her, and he was frantic to make it stop. He leaned close, his cheek to hers and his lips by her ear. He had to believe she’d hear him.

“I’ll not leave here without you, Gêdul. Do you hear me? You destroy yourself, and you destroy me.” Words he knew his Saldís would heed if anything remained of her. “You do the choosing. We fight together to fix you, or we both rot in Mordor.” 

More words followed. Words urging her to cease this civil war. Words of love and fear.

But in the end, they were only words. ‘Twas Saldís alone who must do the saving of herself.

_All_ of Saldís.

OoOoOo

The battle lines were drawn. The combatants slashed and gouged one another without mercy, each intent upon destroying the other. In the barren wasteland that was the battlefield of their mind, with only black shadows crackling overhead to keep company, they faced off. Neither would surrender. Neither would show mercy. The unspoken compact was without question: only one would survive.

 _I **hate** you,_ Saldís screamed, shaking with the fervor of a lifetime of disgust and detestation. She’d never been easy harboring Akhora’s dark pleasures and thoughts, her violence. In the name of survival, Akhora had ever shown herself willing to abandon honor and sacrifice innocent lives, a penchant that filled Saldís with revulsion. That other side of her was debased and evil, and by Mahal, she’d eradicate it, scratch it away with her fingernails if she must! She scraped and tore at the threads composing her foe, spurred on by memories of Akhora betraying everything Saldís cherished. 

Akhora forsook speech. She shrieked in return, loathing the weak, emotional _thing_ that had time and again failed her. It _ran_ when life grew difficult. It _cowered_ and _hid._ It was a repulsive dastard, a repugnant shirker that never _learned,_ by the Eye. It kept blundering about, _trusting,_ and risking _her_ life. Never again. 

They clashed, each ripping asunder the essence of the other, driven to deadlier heights of fury with every wound dealt. Time had no meaning. An eternity passed, or a blink of the eye. The world outside did not exist as they dealt deeper and deeper wounds to one another, uncaring and unperceiving as both were steadily, dangerously weakened. 

Both were soon littered with physical signs of battle in the strange mind-scape, with bloody rents torn from her flesh by the other’s bare hands. Both labored for breath, wheezing as she weaved upon her feet, her blood-stained fingers curled like claws.

Still, it was not enough. Snarling and screaming, they clashed once more.

Until Shadow rumbled overhead like thunder. Until Akhora faltered, crashing to her knees with her lifeblood dripping on the cracked desert underfoot. As if to underscore their peril, the ground quaked in response. Fissures opened up, angry cracks that speared across the earth as if alive. 

_Mahal._ Saldís’s blood-painted fist—raised to deliver the finishing blow—froze. She jerked, eyes wide, as she beheld the thick mass of Shadow, a tide of locusts that buzzed sinisterly as they devoured inward the edges of her inner world, a world much diminished from the battle’s inception. 

The appearance of fissures had frightened her enough. The utter annihilation of the mind-scape spoke of an encroaching and absolute oblivion.

Except it wasn’t oblivion. Not truly. Somehow, Saldís could yet sense beyond the vanishing vista, but what lay beyond terrified it. ‘Twas chaos…and evil. Such evil as to dwarf anything she’d ever felt from Akhora. 

Her fist lowered. Akhora toppled to the ground. Dead? Or unconscious? 

The world around her continued to rumble. 

“Eru,” she whispered. Hatred melted away like ice under the Tovennen sun. She surveyed the vista with growing alarm…and a fear more primal, more all-encompassing than anything she’d ever before experienced. 

As Akhora faded, Saldís’s courage went with her. All those years ago when she’d willed herself to fade? It was startlingly clear in that moment. She’d shoved the lion’s share of her obstinate refusal to bend, her ability to face terrible things head-on, away from her. She’d thrust it into Akhora.

Without Akhora’s underlying courage, Saldís felt again a small child quaking in terror upon her bed as night painted fearsome shadows on the wall. A moan of fear escaped her as she realized just what she’d done, and with it, Adâd’s voice came to her, his words distorted almost to incomprehensibility by sobs.

“Dinna do this,” he cried. “You canna destroy yourself without destroying me, Gêdul. Do ye not see? Stop this. Stop wagin’ war with yourself. Saldís? Ye hear me?” 

The mind-scape vanished. Saldís gulped for air, eyes staring up at the dungeon ceiling as the shock of what she’d done slammed into her like a sledgehammer. Adâd had warned her, but in her desire to eradicate Akhora, she hadn't listened. 

By attacking one another, she and Akhora had brought themselves to ruin much faster than would have happened otherwise. If her intent had been to spare Adâd, she’d failed miserably. Shadow had spread through her soul, gossamer strands of ice that thrummed with malice as they clogged every nook and cranny.

By Mahal, she was cold. Cold and terrified as the world snapped into crystal clarity around her. In ridding herself of Akhora, she’d gutted herself. 

A bitter laugh escaped her as a sense of irony brushed her. Genius that she was, she’d done much of Kimilzor’s work for him.

OoOoOo

Bifur’s head jerked up. “Saldís?”

The Novice stepped from Bofur’s side—the lad had been conversing with Bifur’s cousin for some time now—but the boy said no words. He watched, that one, his heart in its own brand of turmoil. What had passed between Bofur and the boy, Bifur didn’t know, but words there had been, hushed and plentiful. 

Bifur’s chest tightened to find his daughter’s gray eyes clear, lucid…and frightened. He inhaled sharply. By Durin, there was such sorrow in them, such regret as to undo him. “Nay,” he whispered. 

Her left arm lifted, and her palm pressed to his cheek. “I’m sorry, Adâd.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and his too in response. Bifur captured her hand between his cheek and shoulder. “I made it worse,” she confessed.

Worse? Every muscle in his body tensed.

“Worse?” the Novice repeated. The boy shuffled a step closer, poised for flight with his face announcing his distrust, but also worried.

Saldís’s brow furrowed. “’M sorry, Ciryan. I never meant to hurt you.”

“It wasn’t you,” he said. “It was _her.”_

“He’s your brother,” Bifur informed her in Khuzdul. 

Saldís’s eyes flared. Her breath caught, and her attention rushed back to the boy— _Ciryan,_ Bifur committed to memory. The lad’s ties to Saldís gave him a place in Bifur’s affections. Bifur didn’t need to know aught else for that to be true. 

“I’m your half brother,” Ciryan said stiffly. “Or so the Mouth said before handing me over to Arcanists so’s they could track you down.”

Saldís sagged, her eyes closing. “So I failed you, too.” Her lips twisted, and her face scrunched with grief though her eyes remained shut. “I swear, I would have tried to be a good sister to you, Ciryan. I would have.”

Would have? “You’re not giving up. Not yet, you’re not,” Bifur growled. Her eyes snapped open. “Don’t you dare, Gêdul.”

Her expression turned bleak, and that frightened Bifur all the more. “It’s too late, Adâd,” she whispered in Khuzdul. She smiled, a watery, tremulous thing. “I… I made it worse.” A tear escaped her right eye as she made that admission. “We… I…” She swallowed. “By attacking each other, we fed the poison. It’s Shadow. It feeds on pain and hurt and…” Her breath hitched. “…hate.”

Chills skittered up Bifur’s spine. “Nay,” he breathed.

Her thumb caressed his cheek before her hand dropped to her side. “I think…” She blinked away more tears. “I think I understand now. When… When I was still a child, I created Akhora as a mask,” she explained. “But the longer I pretended, the more real she seemed to grow. I was angry, Adâd, so angry that it frightened me. I didn’t want to be that kind of a person, one given to rage, and so I shunted it into her. All the hate, all the fury and spite and malice I couldn’t cope with? I shoved it all at her to distance myself from it.”

_Mahal._ He’d begun to suspect as much. “You were a child, Gêdul.”

“Aye,” she said in a watery voice, her lips trembling. “I hated her for what I made her, and she hated me for being so weak that she was necessary.”

She used the past tense. Why did she use the past tense? Bifur’s alarm grew. 

“My fault,” she said. “Our fault. We were so consumed with destroying one another that we didn’t think.”

“What has happened, Gêdul?” Bifur demanded, his voice hard.

“I… I think I destroyed her, Adâd,” she admitted in a voice shorn of life. “I destroyed…me. She’s naught more than a whisper now.” Her eyes moved as if seeing things Bifur could not see. “We tore each other apart, hating…” She inhaled shakily. Her face contorted. “How I _hated_ her for what she’s done, for what she feels and thinks.” 

Thoughts and feelings, Bifur thought numbly, that were nothing unnatural. There was not a soul walking upon Arda who did not have dark, unwelcome thoughts, who did not inwardly feel shame at the random, fleeting thoughts and impulses few would admit aloud. ‘Twas a part of all of them, from Bifur to Bofur to even gentle Bilbo. All had moments of weakness and selfishness. All. 

Yet Saldís had taken those inclinations and heaped them together. She’d gone and slapped the label “Akhora” upon them and rejected them outright as evil. What else could that other part of her be, concentrated vices that it was? It lacked the rest o’ Saldís, her heart and honor, to moderate it. 

“What has happened?” Bifur managed and found his voice strangled. 

Haunted eyes stared up at him. “We attempted to shred each other, and in our hatred, we fed it—the Shadow. It… It’s everywhere,” she whispered. “The wounds we created permitted it to sink hooks deeper than it should have managed so quickly. It… I can feel it like sludge, Adâd, sliding through me.” She shuddered, her left hand clutching at him.

_Mahal._ Silence. The room rang with it. Bifur’s mind spun out o’ control. Of one thing alone was he certain: he’d not be surviving it if he lost her this way. Oh, aye, his body might go on, but his heart would be ashes. 

She had to fight, and his gut told him that if she was not unified, she stood no chance of holding out much longer. 

_She has no chance anyway,_ fear murmured. Bifur thrust it away from him. He’d fight for every second of his daughter’s life. Every. Blessed. Second. 

Bifur’s eyes pricked, and he swallowed back the lump in his throat. “Fight, Gêdul. For me. Please…” His voice failed him. “Please, my Saldís, my _Khajima.”_ (Gift)

“A lousy gift I’ve been,” she whispered.

“The best of gifts,” he corrected, crooking his lips into a small smile. “Don’t you know? You made me a better dwarf. Just by bein’ my daughter.” Bifur sniffled back tears and held her eyes. “We fight, aye?”

She didn’t want to. ‘Twas plain as day on her face. “You must promise me.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, mindful of the ax embedded in his skull. “Aye?”

“You promise me,” she said, her voice turning fierce. “Don’t let me become a wraith, Adâd. Please. Don’t let me become…that. Don’t let me hurt people.”

What was she…? His mind clanged with disbelief. Nay. She was asking him to end her. 

Her hand fumbled for his shoulder. When it located it, it clamped down with frantic strength. “Promise me.”

“Nay,” he burst. How could she ask this of him? 

“Promise me,” she said with growing desperation, her eyes wide and frightened. “Adâd…”

Nay. He was her adâd. He was supposed to fight and die for her, not be the one to take her life. Images flooded his mind: his wee Gêdul as a babe, cooing up at him as she clapped her pudgy little hands; her child self racing through Thorin’s Hall giggling as he chased after her bent low and growling like a bear; her adult self sobbing in his arms as her past came to light, so very afraid the truth would drive him from her. 

But another image followed them, that of his daughter consumed until naught but the shell of her remained. His mind painted the picture of her body cold and pale as death, her eyes black as night and her lips curled into an evil smile as she used her knowledge about the Khazâd to destroy Hall after Hall. 

Her head tilted, her eyes seeking another. “Uncle, tell him. Please. Don’t let me become a monster.”

Bofur’s hands formed fists. Anguish wrote itself across his face before Bofur’s head turned away. “Don’t ask it of me,” he said in a voice shorn of life. His head bowed.

Bifur’s heart gave a pained pang. Aye, Bofur knew what slaying her would cost him. Doubtless, it would do the same to Bofur.

“I… I’ll do it,” came the lad’s voice. 

Daughter and father both glanced at the boy. Ciryan trembled, he did, with the force of the emotions rocking through him, but the stubborn lad’s chin lifted. Aye, he’d use that blade on Saldís if he had to, though it looked to be fair killin’ the boy to make the commitment. 

‘Twas another dagger’s thrust through the heart. Distantly, Bifur wondered how much torment a heart could endure. His felt like it bled to death.

_Nay,_ a part of him cried without strength. Bifur’s attention returned to his daughter and found her begging silently not to let Ciryan bear that burden. 

Bifur gave the only answer he could, the only one possible. He dipped his head. If it came to it, his would be the hands to slay her. He’d not let Ciryan carry that load of guilt. 

“I’ll do as you ask,” Bifur said in a hoarse voice, “only if you give your word. Promise me you’ll fight, Gêdul. Promise me you’ll fight with everything in you.” 

“I don’t know how—”

“You stop splitting yourself in twain. Akhora is you, and you are her. You cannot hope to resist that Morgoth’s brew divided for long. You listen to your adâd, Saldís of the Line of Ur. Stop hiding from yourself. Embrace all that you are, Saldís, and fight. _Trust me._ Take up arms, and fight.”

OoOoOo

Fight.

Hold up her end of the bargain when she’d never felt less like battling. Finnin was dead. She would soon join him, and she felt a measure of peace, secure in Adâd’s promise. Unless Kimilzor somehow stopped him, Bifur would ensure she never made that final transition into a mindless tool of Mordor.

But for Bifur, she’d try. “Only for you, Adâd,” she whispered, and he nodded jerkily. Mahal, she could feel the way his battered body shook. “I’ll fight for _you.”_

Unifying with Akhora… ‘twould either bolster her to make a stand—for what, Saldís couldn’t fathom with herself poisoned and them all trapped in Mordor—or bring about an instant end. Merging with a Shadow-ridden Akhora, she suspected, could well spell her own immediate fall. 

_Together,_ she thought at the limp body of her other half. _So be it._

With one deep inhale, she lifted her eyes to Adâd and said, “I love you.” Saldís dropped her every defense, spread her arms wide, and gathered her most bitter enemy close until the one who’d become two once again melted into a unified whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunted down a new site w/ Kuzdul for this chapter (I didn't have the words I needed from previously listed sources.) Credit goes to www.angelfire.com/bug/ferris78/subpage.html “The Khuzdul Language”


	63. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So good news, bad news. Good news: another chapter. Yey! Bad news: this is the last I had in reserve, so I'll be posting as subsequent chapters are finished. I'll try to post in a timely fashion, but I'd rather aim for quality rather than rush and mangle up the ending. :) 
> 
> One other note: I changed the Slag Hills. In lore, it is two hills that the Host positions themselves on when fighting Sauron's forces. That didn't work for me lol. Instead of two big hills, I changed it into a mess of smaller ones. :P

_**Isenmouthe, Mordor** _

Perspiration beaded Nori’s hairline and collected in his beard. His breaths rasped in his ears louder than he was comfortable with, but what was the alternative? Stop breathing? 

_Aye, that will aid our cause,_ he thought with tight-lipped irony.

Stripped of armor and with Bifur’s spear strapped to his back, Nori had painstakingly slithered his way along the Black Númenórean outpost’s southern border in search of a way within that wouldn’t result in instant capture. With the main entrance at the road out of consideration—and with how many souls Nori had spied clogging the streets right up to the entrance, it was _very_ out of the question—he’d spent the better part of two hours worming his way along the outpost’s crude wall in search of an alternative. With each passing minute, Nori felt more and more like an overstuffed sausage, only instead o’ tasty meat and spices, ‘twas sour fear that filled him to bursting.

_Hold on, lassie. Your uncle Nori is coming._ Eventually. 

Saldís was a survivor. Nori was banking on that. He refused to entertain notions that he might already be too late to save her or Bifur and Bofur. 

Old skills, long unused, had returned to him as if he’d never departed from his less honorable days. A thief, he’d been, and a master thief at that. How Dori had wrung his hands, despairing over Nori’s shady doings. He was responsible for Dori’s full head of gray hair, or so Nori had been told more times ‘n a dwarf could count. 

Nori bet himself all the ale in Erebor that Dori would change his tune after this. If Nori had lived a respectable life, he’d never have remained undetected these long, nerve-wracking hours. Sniffing around Black Númenórean borders whilst the men were good ‘n riled? ‘Twas harder by spades than evading Gondor’s lofty City Guard, or even, _heh,_ a riled Dwalin. Few indeed were the dwarves who could do it, and all of them Nori knew from his less-honorable past.

An irregularity snagged his attention. Was that a discoloring of the wall, or had he found a hole? Urgency whipped him harder, and he wiggled to the site with new speed, using elbows and knees to propel him along. 

It was a hole, alright, a jagged one in the masonry of a three story building whose back was incorporated into the outpost’s southern wall. It was a small breach, too small even for old Bilbo had the hobbit been available to join this latest adventure, and it perched a foot or thereabouts above the ground. 

_Rukhsul menu,_ he growled. (Son of an orc.) Nori was out o’ patience. His heart drummed out a frantic tempo, warning him he’d be too late to do any saving if he didn’t, by Durin, hustle. Small or not, Nori would make the hole work. 

After plastering himself to the wall left of the hole, Nori bent down until one ear hovered over the opening. Holding his breath and willing his heart to silence, he strained to hear sounds from within. 

A full minute passed. There were no footsteps, no doors opening or closing, no conversation. Was it empty, then? ‘Twas a possibility, as crowded as the streets had been. 

_I’ll know soon enough._ Nori abandoned stealth. His hands methodically dismantled that patch of the wall. He grabbed the ragged bricks comprising the hole’s lips and muscled them loose, one at a time. Aulë’s ax, it was hard work, but Nori persisted. All the while, his ears strained for any indication of life within the building. 

_As sure as a dwarf loves his ale, something is afoot._ Why were the Black Númenóreans assembling on the street? While it was probably the reason he was free to widen the hole without discovery, having so many eyes out and about was going to hamper him something fierce once he won his way into the compound. Sneaking about would be next to impossible.

_Next to is not the same as impossible,_ he told himself, ignoring the voice of caution that warned against growing too cocky. As ever, that voice of caution used Dori’s voice, making it easier for Nori to ignore. Nori had ample experience in that department. ‘Twas a fact that Dori fretted like a hobbit ate: frequently and with gusto. 

Nori paused and eyed his handiwork. _Good enough._ He wiggled his way through, leaving a goodly amount of skin in his wake. Once in, he rose to a crouch, right hand married to the hilt of his favorite dagger. His head cocked right, then left. Silence. 

_Now comes the hard part, searching the outpost._ ‘Twould be like attempting to rob a vault whilst the guards were inside it. 

He started where he was, scouring the building from top to bottom. ‘Twas as empty of foes as he’d hoped, but that also meant there was no Bofur, Bifur or Saldís to be found. 

_Of course not. That’d be too easy._ Given how often Madame Luck had relieved herself on the Black Company, Nori hadn’t expected otherwise. He ventured out the front door, breath bated and heart a-thumping. He’d noticed the way the Eye’s movements painted dancing shadows on the streets and timed his exit accordingly.

A wee smile curled his lips to think it was Sauron himself aiding Nori in slinking about undetected. Mayhap he should leave the Dark Lord a thank you gift ere he departed. ‘Twas only good manners, Nori was certain Bilbo would agree. So aye. Kimilzor’s head on a pike, if Nori could locate the wretch. The man hadn’t been in Caeldor, so he had to be here…somewhere. Nori need only find him.

From there, Nori searched the building to his right and the one after that, his skin crawling all the while in anticipation of detection. Whatever it was that had resulted in the Black Númenóreans congregating on the streets as they were, it kept their attention on the stretch of road leading to Udûn, and the Mountains of Shadow to the east. 

_For now._ With a silent exhale, he slithered on to the next building in line.

Some twenty minutes later (and a handful more pithy slurs added to Lady Luck’s account) found Nori stuck within a pile o’ reeking rubbish he’d been forced to dive into to avert disaster. The stench was terrible, sufficient to convince Black Númenóreans of all ranks to give the heap a wide berth, but not so wide as to permit Nori to slip free of it. Trapped, he was, and seething at more wasted time…when that fickle lass decided to flash him some ankle and a bit o’ calf, the tease.

“What are we waiting for?” a woman a dozen paces away complained to the man in formation beside her after a furtive glance around. 

‘Twas a good question, one Nori too wished answered.

The man smirked. “What is your hurry? Eager to spend the night in the company of orcs, Javiha?” he drawled with heavy lidded disdain. 

Javiha scowled. “Why wait for the Gondorians to reach the gates?” 

Nori’s ears pricked. What was this now? 

“We should ride out and destroy them,” another male agreed. “Catch them on the road at night. Descend upon them before they even know we are there.”

Nori’s eyebrows shot upwards. Was this a joke? Gondor marched on Mordor? 

_Are they daft?_ Scratch that. Of course they were daft. No one in his right mind would march on Mordor. 

Still, ’twas a distraction, and one that looked ready to empty the outpost. If ‘twas so… Nori’s eyes gleamed even as they watered from the foul stench filling his nostrils. If ‘twas so, his chances of finding his family were about to go up exponentially. With an army of men to contend with, guarding three prisoners would fall in importance…probably.

“The Eye wishes to wait until the dwarf army joins the men,” the Arcanist countered, unimpressed with his compatriots’ battle lust. 

Dwarf army? What rubbish. _There is no way—_

“A dwarf army? Mounted on lizards?” the female scoffed. “I call that proof that the Mouth is deranged. Whatever the Master did to the former Lord Sangahyando, Kimilzor did not emerge with his sanity intact.” 

Every muscle in Nori’s body stiffened as too many arrows of shock _whapped_ into him hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath—belly flopping at the Melkor-awful taste that instantly invaded his mouth—Nori tried to make sense of all he’d heard. A slow anger, one hot enough to scorch the beard off a dwarf’s face, began to burn in his core. The Mouth was Kimilzor? 

Nori fingered a wee piece o’ unidentifiable filth out of his way, permitting his gaze to locate the creature under discussion where he sat at the helm of the assembled army. Clad all in black armor, he was, as he sat astride a bony horse too creepy for words. 

Kimilzor was a dead man. Nori vowed then and there not to depart Mordor until he saw the man dead ‘n buried. 

As for the rest… 

A measure of relief swept over the ex-thief. _Dís has come._ There was not a shred o’ doubt in Nori’s mind. The presence of the Blacklocks’ famed _gorrah_ confirmed it. 

_By Mahal, she’s done it. Our Durin’s done the impossible._ Somehow, the wily dam had succeeded where Thorin himself had failed all those decades earlier. She’d rallied the Blacklocks to her cause. 

Perhaps, Nori thought with distant humor, Thorin should have sent his sister to ask the other dwarf Houses for aid in reclaiming Erebor. When Nori met his end, he’d be sure to lecture his liege and friend for the gross oversight. The dam had time and again proved to be a force to be reckoned with. 

How his lady liege and the sons of Gorim had come to be so far north instead of Tovennen, Nori didn’t bother wondering. She’d come, and that was that. 

The mission Nori had assigned himself—a futile mission, Nori had privately suspected—now struck him as attainable with a bit o’ craftiness and luck. Luck alone had planted Nori at the right place and time to learn all he had, so he considered that perhaps he owed the feisty miss a bit of an apology. 

Hope ignited. If Nori could locate and free his family, he need only get them to the Novices and all of them thereafter to the Blacklocks. With Mordor fighting Gondor, the Black Company and Novices might just manage to sneak free of the Dark Lord’s lands…and his grasp. 

Chills crawled up his spine to his nape. ‘Twas a fighting chance. A dwarf couldn’t ask for more than that.

“Do continue to run your mouth, Javiha. Don’t be shy. Tell the Mouth and our Master what you really think of their intellect.”

The woman blanched. Her lips thinned. After clearing her throat and shrugging, she changed tune and subjects. “If we delay much longer, we might be able to enjoy the screams soon to come from Ost Egla.” Her glance over one shoulder directed Nori’s attention to the blackened monstrosity looking down on them from a hill to the south. 

_Ost Egla,_ he identified without hesitation. What, Nori wondered, was it that was supposed to be happening there? 

The Arcanist scoffed. “The poison won’t take affect for days, likely more a week from now.” A smile of sheer mockery tilted the man’s thin lips. “If you wish to hear Akhora’s dwarves shriek in terror as she kills them, you’ll have a bit of a wait yet. Vultures will be feasting on the Gondorians long before that comes to pass.”

Aye. Nori owed Lady Luck a huge apology. The lass had winked Nori’s way, to learn all he had in such a short space, but did she have to follow up with a knee to his privates? _Poison,_ his soul whispered with renewed fear. The curs had poisoned Nori’s niece? 

More words followed, echoing, hollow words that resounded like gongs. Saldís had been poisoned by a Morgul blade. The Mouth had stabbed her and tossed her in with her adâd and uncle, intending that as the vile stuff did its dastardly deed, Nori’s loved ones would die horribly at poor Saldís’s hands, what remained of her.

As Nori watched the Mouth command his troops to move out, and rank after rank of Númenóreans marched by Nori’s position in silence, a tremendous fury claimed him. Nori’s chin dipped. Aye, Nori had been mad from the start. It had been monstrous, and it had been personal. 

What filled him then…was worse. Flaming hot rage plummeted in temperature to a deadly frozen tundra blanketed in razor sharp icicles. A quieter fury. A deadlier fury. 

He waited only until the army disappeared into the valley of Udûn, leaving the outpost emptied of all but a couple dozen souls arrayed along its southern border—he distantly wondered if the fools really thought they’d be invaded from within Mordor—before he burst free from his hiding spot, eyes mere slits, nostrils flared, and that silent rage howling at him to spill blood. 

_Pallando will be with Dís,_ a part of him reassured. _He has to be._ And if there was any saving Nori’s niece from a Morgul blade, Nori trusted Pallando’s to be the hands capable of it. 

So. Get Saldís and his kin. Collect the Novices and the Rangers, and hie them all to the wizard. Naught else mattered.

Nori yanked Bifur’s spear free from its harness, his gaze slipping from the guards along the southern wall to those barely detectable outside Ost Egla and back to the street around him in a last search for hidden eyes. He found none, but as Nori turned to head south, an oddity tickled his mind. The ex-thief checked again…and a new horror hit him. The wee piles of what he assumed to be discarded packs, cloaks, and the like were no such thing. 

Corpses, they were, of the wee Novices the Black Númenóreans had murdered. _Their own children._ Nori’s temper chilled another hundred degrees. There were no words for such an atrocity. None.

His gaze lifted to the southern edge of town where unsuspecting men and women in black guarded that point of egress both from ground and roof level. Nori rotated Bifur’s spear in his hand, getting a feel for the weapon. 

The icy rage rattled his bones as it shook with renewed fervor. On his way to Ost Egla, Nori intended to do a spot o’ hunting.

OoOoOo

_  
**North Ithilien, Gondor**  
_

A choking, strangled noise tickled Aragorn’s ears. It was so soft that he almost missed it beneath the thunder of hundreds of hooves. The sun had long since set, but the Host pressed onward, their numbers bolstered once again by the triumphant return of Eomer and his Rohirrim. All were tired and grim with determination, but urgency forbade them rest.

Aragorn’s attention rushed to his patient, and he hauled back on Brego’s reins. “Yanar?” Aragorn said, cognizant of riders swerving to avoid a collision at the king’s sudden halt. Brego danced beneath him, eyes rolling. 

Aragorn’s breath hitched. In the gloom Aragorn couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the boy’s lips were turning blue. 

“No,” the king whispered. His palm pressed to the teen’s jaw, fingers seeking a pulse. It had weakened since Aragorn had last slowed Brego to force athelas tea down Yanar’s throat, drastically weakened. “No, Yanar,” he said. “Do not surrender now. _Auta i lómë_ —the night will pass. Fight, Yanar. Fight for life.”

“Yanar?” came Kyvin’s voice. The impression of an _emala_ hovering nearby teased the corner of Aragorn’s eye. 

“Do you hear?” Aragorn asked his patient in a tight voice. His right hand rooted through the contents of the pouch at his hip, withdrawing only after finding what he needed. Aragorn crushed more athelas beneath the boy’s nostrils. “You are not alone. Your friends are here—Kyvin and Rizhir, Sivva and Ziphora. You stopped the ambush and saved many lives.” Aragorn’s voice roughened. “Do not abandon hope. If by my blood, I can purchase you a brighter future, I will shed it. Upon the throne of Gondor, I swear it.” 

“He’s dying,” Sivva accused. “I _told_ you he wouldn’t—”

“Hush, young one,” Golodir said. “This is the crisis point. Yanar needs your encouragement, not your despair. He carries enough of that already.”

“Yanar is strong,” Ziphora said from behind Elladan. “He’ll beat this.” Whether she aimed to convince herself or Yanar, Aragorn was uncertain. 

Aragorn’s lips parted with more encouragement, but before words emerged, Yanar gasped, a deep, full-lunged sound. Conversation ceased. All attention locked onto Yanar’s face. 

_Please,_ Aragorn prayed. _Please._

Yanar’s eyes flew open, wide and frightened. The teen’s hands reached out blindly, scrabbling for purchase. They bunched around Aragorn’s bicep and cloak. 

“Yanar!” the four Novices cried in unison. 

Aragorn’s hand cupped the teen’s cheek, directing Yanar’s eyes to his. “You are safe,” he assured softly. “The enemy no longer has you. Breathe the free air, valiant son of Numenor. You have won a hard battle. Breathe.”

Yanar blinked, brow furrowing. “Wha…?” he managed sluggishly, only to find himself with an armful of Sivva. The Novice had thrown herself across the distance between them. Her arms locked around the older boy’s neck, and her face disappeared against his chest. She shuddered soundlessly. 

Yanar’s arms slowly closed around her. The confusion left Yanar’s visage in stages, replaced by guardedness. 

Relief lifted the king’s lips in a small smile. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dunedain and heir to the throne of Gondor,” Aragorn informed the boy, nodding slowly to underscore his words when Yanar’s eyes widened minutely. “You are welcome among us.” 

More than welcome. Gondor would be proud to call this great-souled boy her son. 

Aragorn’s gaze lifted to Golodir’s. If these Novices, having been born to suffering and abuse, could rally to fight the Darkness, perhaps there was more strength left among men than Aragorn had dared to believe. 

Perhaps enough to carry them through to victory. His gaze rose to the jagged peaks of the Mountains of Shadow. _If_ the Host could hold out long enough. _If_ Frodo and Sam yet fought their way toward Mount Doom. 

Despite all the reasons logic provided to despair, in the king’s breast the candle of hope took new life, burning steadfast against the darkness.

OoOoOo

Finnur rode silently near the back of the Host, heartily sick of his mount, tired in both mind and body, and worried something fierce about his _nadad_ and friends. Like the lasses Sivva and Ziphora, he’d switched from an _emala_ to a horse in Osgiliath, and his fingers fumbled with nuts and bolts courtesy of the creature’s jouncier gait.

Durin’s beard, would the blasted fly bait not hold steady? 

He blinked away the sting of tears, good and well frustrated. Aye, and heart sore, to boot. The men rode to the Black Gates to draw Sauron’s Eye—a good enough plan insofar as plans went, he supposed. But with Saldís’s Novices unveiled as traitors, all looked dark and grim to the inventor. What was needed was a Mahal-sent miracle.

_Saldís and Finnin will not sit back and watch the young ones be murdered,_ his heart whispered. None o’ the Black Company to have ventured into Mordor would, so like as not, his companions were in the thick of things. 

Or perhaps dead. Finnur shuddered to think it. He’d never felt so helpless. What good his penchant for constructing oddities when his brother…?

He shook his head, sniffled, and bent over his handful of doodads once more. He’d no notion what he was making, only that he needed to keep occupied. He kept praying he’d be able to whip up something…anything…to help the Host and his loved ones.

Gimli and the elf Gimli had taken a liking to, Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm, had attached themselves to Finnur’s side hours before, and each time Finnur’s attention wandered to the sinister mountains to their east, sympathy and a kindred concern clouded their features. Gimli had said little except a gruff, “They’re survivors, the sons of Ur. Don’t rule them out just yet.”

The words brought scant comfort. Finnur appreciated Gimli’s effort—aye, he did—but Finnur could not cease from fretting. He had but one brother, and a better brother than Finnin did not exist to Finnur’s mind. Finnin had never failed to encourage him, no matter the unkind whispers Finnur’s penchant for tinkering elicited. From the first, Finnin had been his staunchest champion.

It made it all the more infuriating that Finnur could not _concentrate,_ may Sauron’s beard be scorched. His brother and friends counted upon his skills, and Finnur’s mind remained blank. Blank! 

He had no more of the precious fire powder, without which his wee birds were useless—well, unless the point was to delight and entertain Mordor’s legions with child’s toys. Traps were more a hindrance than aid in war, as likely to snap up a friend as foe. 

What did that leave?

_One mush-for-brains inventor with naught to contribute,_ he fumed privately. His hands balled into fists around an odd assortment of components. And stayed that way as his mind searched in vain for an answer while the minutes flew like spooked birds.

Until it happened. An inkling tickled the recesses of his mind. Finnur scratched his bearded chin with the back of one knuckle. ‘Twas ridiculous, almost certainly…but it would pass the time. “Gimli?” he called to the older dwarf. When Gimli’s head turned his way, Finnur asked, “How much booze do you suppose we’ve got, the whole Host combined?”

Whether this idea would pan out, Finnur didn’t know. But the spark of a challenge ignited, flaming to a bright fire in no time at all. ‘Twas something to do, and if it worked… Mahal, if it worked, it would shock the enemy something fierce. Tit for tat, Finnur dubbed it. 

That was assuming the warriors of men carried a goodly quantity of Mahal’s nectar with them to war. He cautioned himself not to get too excited. It was doubtful the men would prove of help, for in his experience, none but the Khazâd had the proper appreciation for liquor. If Finnur had been marching with an army of dwarves, there would be no question. Each dwarf would carry enough for one last (and healthy, mind) drink to toast the world goodbye in case the battle proved his end. Aye, and most would have a wee bit extra for nerves while marching. 

Gimli’s eyes gleamed. His beard split with a toothy smile. “An idea, lad?” The other dwarf didn’t wait for an answer. He rubbed his palms together with relish and chortled. “Ye hear that, Legolas? Our inventor’s cooked up a surprise for our enemies. To Aragorn!”

The elf smiled. A heartbeat later, two horses galloped towards the head of the Host.

OoOoOo

_  
**Durthang, Mordor**  
_

Torches sputtered and snapped from rusty iron sconces barely clinging to the walls of what had once been an impressive hall. Their uncertain light drove away the worst of the dark, leaving Novices and Rangers in a room shaded in varying hues of dim. From her seat beside her new brother, Yahzin rested gingerly against the wall, too well aware of centuries of filth now transferring from the wall’s grimy blocks to her hair and clothing. 

_Orcs,_ she silently sneered. It was a wonder the creatures had not died out from pestilence Ages ago given their lack of hygiene. 

Exhaustion settled over her shoulders, leadening her limbs and adding weight to her eyelids. Yahzin’s gaze wandered listlessly. All around, teammates slept, sharpened their weapons, or tried to comfort those in too much pain to sleep. Healing draughts could only do so much, so the hushed atmosphere was punctuated by occasional cries. 

Such cries never would have happened in Caeldor. Yahzin took fierce pride that these teammates of hers had come to trust one another enough to be so vulnerable, even as her eyes prickled with the weight of her own fears and uncertainties. 

She’d never had more to lose. 

Her eyes locked upon Thannor where he held conference with Erynor, Gylmal, and Tahal at the nearest hearth. The low fire painted his skin with bronze and deepened the lines of fatigue marking his face. Despite that, Thannor showed no sign of seeking rest anytime soon. 

That wouldn’t do. As soon as he finished with his counsel, she intended to intervene. Someone had to look out for him. She’d just gotten him. She didn’t plan to let him sicken and die on her.

As she studied his strong features, a thought popped into her head: _He’ll die to defend us._ She inhaled sharply, gooseflesh breaking out upon her skin. 

It was true. She knew it was true. Thannor wouldn’t hesitate. This Ranger, her father, was everything she’d once dreamed a father could be, back when she’d dared to believe life was different elsewhere, when she’d wished she’d been born somewhere, anywhere else. Thannor was strong, brave and protective, a defender. 

Her lips curved privately, and tears turned her sight watery. A new warmth radiated from her chest. It frightened her a little, this caring, but she knew she’d fight ferociously to protect the feeling. Thannor was _her_ father, and she intended to keep him.

Yahzin swiped moisture from one eye, thankful Thannor wasn’t watching. (She didn’t want to lose his respect by acting like a kid.) She supposed that instead of wallowing in her thoughts, she could join him, but instead some inner prompting had planted her at Berenor’s side. 

Perhaps it was the frustration flickering within her brother’s brown eyes, the flattening of his lips as he struggled to overhear what their father did not wish him burdened with. Perhaps it was the desire to win Berenor’s approval, to solidify her place in his family. 

Or maybe it was just empathy. Berenor had snapped at Erynor, Thannor…well, pretty much everyone…and it was plain he regretted it. Berenor’s emotions were unstable, swinging violently from anger to despair and back again without warning.

Erynor and Thannor could not understand. They could sympathize, and she thought they did, but to understand what her brother was struggling with, a person had to live it. Yahzin was very, very well acquainted with the emotional storm Berenor fought to contain, and the resulting shame that followed when he failed. She had screamed beneath an Arcanist’s hands, too. Though her ordeal had not been as severe as Berenor’s, she understood what he was going through.

A shiver wracked Berenor’s body. Yahzin’s hand lifted, only to halt before it connected with his shoulder. Brown eyes flicked her way. Her hand instead nervously migrated to slick a lock of hair behind her ear. “Do you need anything?” she whispered uncertainly. “Some water? Food?” 

His breathy laugh broke off, morphing into a grunt of pain. Berenor swallowed. “Food?” he asked with scorn. “What good is f—” His eyes closed, and his face twisted. “’M sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be,” she said softly, meeting his gaze when his eyes flew open. “I know what it’s like.” Nothing more, just the declaration. As they stared at one another, she felt he understood, for his countenance darkened.

_“Mibo orch,”_ he said under his breath. Before she could ask for a translation, he said tiredly, “What I need, Cat, is to be whole.” ( _Cat?_ she wondered with a blink.) “Hale,” he growled with rising ire. “We’re in Mordor. All my life, I trained to fight the orcs and their minions. I’m a Ranger, yet when it counts most, I’m left bloody useless!”

OoOoOo

By the end, Berenor was close to shouting, a fact he only realized when heads turned their way. His father spared him a fleeting frown.

 _Eru._ Guilt choked him, and his eyes slid from Yahzin’s. He swallowed painfully. _I can’t do this. I can’t do this._ No matter how hard he tried to keep a leash on his tongue, it kept dealing out insults and venom to the people around him, especially to his loved ones. 

Yahzin, when his eyes snuck over for a quick look, nibbled on her lower lip, her hands tight about her scimitar’s hilt and sheath…as if it was her blankey and she a child of three. 

_Fix it,_ guilt demanded. 

He was too tired to figure out how, so instead he changed the subject. “Tell me,” he said in a hollow voice. He stared up at the grimy, smoke-stained ceiling. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Hear what?” She shifted a few inches closer to him. 

_My new kid sister,_ he thought, not sure how he felt feel about it. The Berenor before his capture would already be teasing her mercilessly and doing all in his power to make her giggle. The new Berenor wasn’t sure he had reserves left to care. 

He cared. Of course he did. Didn’t he?

“What happened to the Black Company? Do you know?” Berenor exhaled raggedly. “My grandfather—no one has mentioned him. Where is he? What about the others, the Rangers and dwarves?” He paused, uncertain he wished the next question answered, “Did we lose at Caeldor?” If it had all been for nothing, Berenor wasn’t sure he’d survive the news with sanity intact. Remembered nightmare images rushed through his mind, causing his heart to race. 

Even so, the girl stiffened enough for him to notice out of the corner of one eye. When he faced her, she looked made of stone, all but her eyes. Green cat’s eyes stared at him glassily, haunted and shadowed. 

Berenor surprised himself with a spurt of concern. “Cat?” he pressed gently.

“My name is Yahzin,” she supplied with a sharp edge, as if he’d forgotten.

A pinhole ray of light reached his heart, and Berenor’s lips twitched. “Cat,” he corrected. “For your eyes.” And her feisty temperament. 

Yahzin wobbled as if a stiff wind would blow her over despite the wall bracing her back. He felt all the more tired. His eyelids drooped shut. “You’re afraid to tell me. Don’t be.” _Why shouldn’t she be? Even you don’t trust your temper._

Berenor switched topics to a lighter one. “Tell me first how I gained a new sister.” His eyes slit open, and brown eyes caught hers. “We have a sister named Doronel only a year or two older than you. She’s going to be over the moon to hear she has a sister close to her age. Our only other sister, Haedirn, had a child of her own before Doronel was born.”

If anything, Cat grew all the more uncomfortable, and that baffled him. “Hey,” Berenor coaxed, nudging her with his arm. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” The filament of uneasiness worming through him belied his words. 

“It was my fault,” she managed stiffly, looking everywhere but at him. (Her fault?) Her lips turned bloodless…and she told him how his grandfather died.

It was like imbibing liquid fury with a chaser of hatred. She did _WHAT?_

Berenor’s self control slipped, and his teeth ground together. Barhador had been stolen from them…because this girl had been afraid? So had they all been! How could the girl be so stup— 

The thought died when Yahzin hunched in upon herself. It was a much needed slap across the face. Cat might put a brave face on it, but she was just a kid. She’d been trained to distrust, and to expect more from her was grossly unfair. It was a miracle she’d sided with the Rangers after Barhador’s death. 

_Grandfather saved her with his life. Father adopted her._ This kid, who quietly sat by him, her eyes too full of understanding each time his temper flared? She didn’t deserve his ire. 

By the Valar, ignoring the black emotions storming inside him was harder than scaling Narmacil’s Peak without rope or provisions. _Please,_ he prayed. _Help me not to fail Cat, Grandfather, or Father._

For a split-second, a tenuous connection with the Berenor he’d been snapped into existence. _I am a Ranger,_ he growled to himself, shouting defiance against the groveling mess he’d become. He would not be destroyed. He refused to surrender, no matter how difficult it became. 

And—his gaze sharpened upon the girl—thanks to his grandfather, he had a sister who could help him. Ignoring the twisted grief and pain urging him to blame and verbally castigate the easiest target, Berenor forced his palm to open, releasing the dagger he’d refused to relinquish even in sleep. He permitted it to slide to the floor.

Berenor, son of Thannor, took hold of his sister’s hand.

OoOoOo

Fingers fumbled for hers. Yahzin’s attention flew to Berenor’s face and found his brown eyes clearer than they’d been since they’d met. Oh, anger, grief, and desperation churned in their depths, but beneath it all was determination. Berenor had dropped the dagger—her shock grew to realize it—to take her hand.

She was without words. Yahzin had girded herself for his spite—he _should_ hate her for her role in Barhador’s death—and instead found…acceptance? 

“Not your doing,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t you _think_ about leaving us now. You’re Grandfather’s last gift to us.” Quieter, “And I’m going to need your help.”

_Her_ help? A sob escaped her before she knew it was coming. Yahzin’s free hand flew to her lips. 

“You are a gift,” Berenor repeated. “Grandfather knew what he was doing. I will miss him—Eru, I’ll miss him—but I’ve never been more proud of him in my life.” 

They sat there in silence until the lack of words made Yahzin unaccountably awkward. How was she to respond to what he’d said? Desperate for a lighter topic, she blurted, “Cat?” She offered her brother a tremulous smile. “I suppose that’s better than Baby Mule.”

Berenor’s eyes widened. Then they crinkled at the edges. “Erynor?”

Yahzin scowled. “He is insufferable.”

Berenor’s lips curled up in a ghost of a smile, and she thrilled to know that _she_ had caused it. Novice Yahzin, who knew nothing of family or relationships, had brought a smile to _her brother’s_ lips.

“Yes, he is,” Berenor agreed, his smile growing. His head tilted to fully face her. “And lucky you, since Erynor is my brother in all ways but blood, _you’ve_ gained a second big brother…” His smile turned mischievous. “…for life.”

At her groan, Berenor burst into laughter.

OoOoOo

Thannor surreptitiously watched as his son and new daughter spoke, the grief and fear in his heart lessening as Yahzin miraculously coaxed laughter from her brother. She looked young and uncertain, not the cool-headed warrior her training had made her, and it lightened his heart more. She was letting them in—Berenor, Erynor and himself—and Thannor could not help but rejoice.

Hope flared to life. Perhaps he was allowing sentiment too much sway, but he couldn’t help but think that if Yahzin and Berenor could find reason to laugh…in Mordor…when both had endured such hardship, anything was possible. 

“Thannor?”

At Erynor’s voice, Thannor refocused on the makeshift war council. _Two children, one inexperienced Ranger, and me,_ an inner voice provided with both frustration and a touch of absurdity. _I’m sure somewhere the Eye is trembling in fear._

“I promised Dori I would not forsake Saldís,” Thannor said. His gaze slid to Tahal. “You are certain the Mouth led most of the Númenóreans into Udûn?”

Tahal and Gylmal both nodded. Gylmal added, “That Gondorian army must have survived the ambush. Sau—” He cleared his throat. _“He_ is definitely readying to face them at the Black Gates.”

“Good thing we claimed Durthang,” Erynor murmured. 

Yes. From their vantage point, there was little the Rangers and Novices wouldn’t know about Mordor’s movements, especially now that the storm that had plagued the defenders had dissipated. Calenor’s plan, constructed on the hope of a safe haven for Berenor, had turned more fortuitous than the youngest Brother could have foreseen. 

Sauron knew where Thannor and the Novices had holed up, but the Black Company now also knew Sauron’s movements on the chess board that was Mordor. Durthang was, at long long last, serving the purpose for which she’d been built.

Thannor acknowledged Erynor’s statement with a grunt, one hand rubbing his chin. He’d originally planned to sleep, but with the departure of so many Black Númenóreans from the Isenmouthe, that option was gone. As soon as he could coax Yahzin and Berenor to slumber, he’d be stealing away. 

“What do you plan?” Gylmal asked. The young man’s braid dangled down his chest, mud splattered like his clothes. Like Thannor, Tahal and Erynor, he’d had no time to clean up. The dark circles underscoring each eye said the boy was weighted down with a mountain of exhaustion, but he did not seek his pallet or beg to be released from duty as any who’d lived a softer life would have done. 

“He intends to go after Ib-Saldís and that dwarf, Nori,” Tahal said flatly. 

Erynor’s head whipped towards Thannor.

Thannor ignored the other Ranger’s incredulous glare and dipped his head. “I gave my word.” His lips twitched. “Leave no teammate behind, isn’t that what Saldís said?”

“She did,” Gylmal said, his chin lifting and a fire lighting in his eyes. “How many of us do you need?”

Erynor sputtered, but Thannor contented himself with a cocked eyebrow. “Not this time.” Thannor slowly smiled at both kids’ disgruntlement. “I hunt alone. Erynor, you hold this fort, do you hear me? I’ll be returning with our people. Be ready. Should I succeed in freeing Saldís, we may be pursued.”

Erynor muttered something doubtless unflattering under his breath. He dredged one hand through his matted blond tresses. 

“I have to do this,” Thannor said softly. “She is my kinswoman. My father may not have known to save her all those years ago, but I am not so constrained. We cannot fail her again.”

Erynor’s glare skewered him. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” His lips twisted. “Berenor will throw a fit. Baby Mule will have to be tied down to keep from following you.” Erynor paced a short space, his feet like sledgehammers. When he spun around, Thannor found himself pinned by shrewd eyes. “Saldís is my cousin as much as she’s Berenor’s.” He smiled fleetingly. “All three of us adopted her.” The smile morphed into a grimace. “If we are to have any hope of defending Durthang, Thannor, these kids will need you. I will go.”

_Oh Erynor._ Inexperienced or not, the man was a good Ranger. He vastly underestimated himself. “I am the best choice,” Thannor said simply. “I plan to succeed, not throw away one of our lives. No, you are in charge until Anuon arrives with Calenor and Dori. Hold Durthang. Do what you must to keep these Novices safe.” Then to all three of his fellows, Thannor said, “No word of this to anyone. Not until I’m long gone.”

Gylmal slowly nodded. Tahal frowned, but when Thannor stared at him, he gestured his acquiescence. 

Erynor rubbed the back of his neck. “You do know they are going to kill me, right?” he asked, his eyes sliding to where Yahzin and Berenor sat.

Thannor smirked. “Not kill. Wound, perhaps, but I doubt they’d resort to outright murder.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Ost Egla, Mordor**  
_

Ciryan remained beside his sister’s uncle, rear end bouncing against the brick wall, unable to stand still for the turmoil within him. A lump lodged in his throat. Too much had happened in too short a time. He felt as if his belly had been crammed full of disagreeable foods, so much so that he couldn’t begin to digest it all. 

On one hand, he was furious. Ib-Saldís had attacked him. She had _attacked him_ …with the intent to kill! Ciryan had known what that light in her eyes had meant the instant she’d turned his way. He wasn’t an idiot, and this wasn’t his first trip around that block. No one raised in Caeldor would have failed to read her intentions. 

His hand clenched around the handle of the dagger, and he scowled at it, hoping despite his anger that he wouldn’t be forced to use it. He’d felt so betrayed. That second when he’d known she sought his blood, he’d choked on it. 

He’d trusted her. He’d _believed_ in her. Though he hadn’t admitted it himself, he’d been so proud to think she was _his_ sister. Not Yanar’s, not Gylmal’s, but Ciryan’s. 

Only to feel a fool, a brainless kakapo at her betrayal. Ciryan had watched one of those idiot birds once respond to a desert lynx. He’d never forget the lesson. Stupid got one dead very, very fast, which made his blind belief all the more witless. He knew better!

But then had come the revelation: it wasn’t his sister attacking him at all. Akhora had snatched control of Ciryan’s sister, and no wonder. Bofur’s tale of what had happened had boiled Ciryan’s blood even as it planted a lump of congealing ice in his belly. 

Now, fear drummed louder in his ears than the anger or the sense of betrayal. When the Mouth had said he’d poisoned Ib-Saldís, Ciryan had never dreamed it had been with a Morgul blade. Nor could he have imagined that Saldís’s inner war would let the poison ravage her so fast. 

He was losing her, the only family he wanted to acknowledge, before he’d even gotten the chance to claim her. Frustration burned like acid on his tongue. She was _right there,_ and he couldn’t help her. All he could do was watch and wait while the dwarf, Bifur, cradled her to him with his broken hands, her head pillowed on the crook of his shoulder. 

“She’s a fighter,” Bofur said.

Ciryan’s eyes slid to his right and found the dwarf with attention rapt upon the duo on the floor, much as Ciryan had been. “It won’t help.” So said bitter experience. Even if Saldís put herself back together again, what would be the point? She’d been poisoned. He was still going to lose her. 

“Quite the optimist, aren’t you now?” Bofur’s eyes crinkled at the edges though the dwarf did not smile. “We’ll need to work on that, lad.”

Work on…? “It’s called being realistic. Peddle your optimism to someone who doesn’t know its price.”

The dwarf’s eyebrows winged upwards, and he pursed his lips, attention now firmly on Ciryan. Ciryan halted bumping himself against the wall and lifted his chin challengingly. Resentment surged. Who was this dwarf to judge him? _He’d never have survived Caeldor,_ a part of him grumbled.

“Aye, we’ll be working on that,” the dwarf proclaimed with a firm nod of the head. Bofur’s gaze returned to Saldís and Bifur. “We thought our Saldís lost once,” he said, his voice turning grim. “More’n once, truth be told.” Intent eyes returned to Ciryan. “I won’t be making that mistake again. Never underestimate that lass where her adâd is concerned…or you, now that she knows she has a brother. She’s a fighter, a true daughter of the Longbeards. If there is any way to fight the poison, she’ll be doing it.” 

Ciryan scoffed, the sound of derision escaping his lips.

Bofur lifted his brows and leaned closer, smiling. “Care to put a wager on that, lad?”

OoOoOo

‘Twas like dozens of jagged puzzle pieces snapping into place with audible intensity. One moment, Saldís existed as the self she’d known since her reawakening in Dale. The next, her Akhora bits clicked into their proper places, smudged with Shadow and under-girded by a life’s wealth of anger and bitterness but bringing with them a steely grit of their own. There was no jockeying, no contention. Her Akhora side was not capable of resisting or arguing Saldís’s choice. With an ease that astounded her, Saldís, daughter of Bifur, commander of armies, Weapon and descendant of the Dunedain, was made whole.

Aye, whole and grounded in a way she’d never fathomed. Her thoughts were clearer, sharper. New strength of purpose swept through her soul like a cleansing wave. Shadow remained, undiminished and pervasive, but filled with what had been her Akhora-self’s refusal to surrender and bolstered by a love grown richer as she reviewed her life through new eyes, she dug in her heels and mentally armed herself for the fight of her life—the fight for her soul.

Anger rumbled, but it was laced with righteous indignation, no longer self-serving. Aye, she’d been wronged, but so too had every race upon Arda. Time and again, others had reached down to haul her out of the filth of hate and fury to set her upon solid ground. Bifur. Finnin. Nori and Dori. Barhador and Thannor. Through their unflinching support, they’d shown her a better way.

And by Mahal, she was ready to tread that road to its end. Finnin awaited, but she’d not desert Adâd or Uncle Bofur while life remained in her body. Until the poison took her or Kimilzor slew her, Ib-Saldís, former bane of men, soon to be (if she had aught to say about it) terror of orcs, had work to do. 

She was a Weapon. ‘Twas time she was fully unleashed. 

Her eyes cracked open, and Adâd’s husky voice filled her ears. Held against his chest, she was, whilst he rocked side to side and sang to her. Underneath, she detected softer words from Uncle Bofur, and Ciryan’s too, though they ceased a heartbeat later. They’d noticed her parted eyes.

“Bifur,” Bofur hissed.

Bifur’s song halted. His head jerked to an awkward angle, and fear-darkened eyes found hers. “Gêdul?”

Saldís smiled. “Hello, Adâd.”

OoOoOo

Bifur’s heart pounded as his daughter smiled up at him. ‘Twas not a burdened smile nor even one shaky with fear and doubt. ‘Twas tired but sweet with love, and within her eyes, a candle’s flame of peace burned steadily. Determination burbled within too, and Bifur could have shaken the rafters with a shout of relief.

She’d not been consumed. His daughter lived, _all_ of her, and Bifur’s throat tightened to know it. A mountain’s worth of gratitude crashed over him. Endurance, that rune on her hand said. Bifur prayed it was a promise. Not for a wink did he forget that Kimilzor’s Mahal-curse-it poison remained.

_Live,_ he willed of his daughter. _You must live._

“Saldís?” he prodded. He needed her to tell him he had it aright. He needed to know she was whole, that she’d not do an about-face and again seek to destroy herself. 

“You were right,” she said softly. “About everything.” Her left hand wrapped around his beard braid. The gentle tug she gave it was as familiar and precious as the air that filled his lungs. “The poison will likely win,” she cautioned, gray eyes gentle and placid as they held his. A second smile flashed, this one tremulous. “But it’ll have to fight for every inch it gains.”

Bofur whooped. Bifur found a smile of his own. 

Saldís’s expression inexplicably crumpled. “The children, Adâd. We saved them from Caeldor, but they—”

A commotion sounded outside their prison door. Both Bifur’s and Saldís’s heads craned around. Bifur could feel the tension build in his daughter’s frame. A man shouted, a woman growled, then came silence. 

Saldís rolled free from Bifur before aiding him to his feet. The lad, Ciryan, planted himself before them, the dagger clutched in one fist. 

“Ciryan,” Saldís said warningly.

Ciryan tossed a scowl over one shoulder, his expression telling her not to bother. The lad wasn’t budging. _Like sister, like brother,_ Bifur thought with a spurt of amusement.

“Whatever time I have left,” Saldís said in a hush, and Bifur knew the lad listened by the tilt of his head, “I want to be your sister. If you’ll have me.”

What Ciryan might have said was lost. Iron jangled, the sound muffled by the door. Then a lock clicked loudly, echoing. Saldís took up position on Ciryan’s right, Bifur on the boy’s left. A look passed from adâd to nathith, a silent promise that whatever happened next, they would face it side by side. 

The door opened, and Bifur collected himself for an attack. He needed no hands. His feet would dish out damage enough.  
But as the door swung inward and clanged into a wall, framed there in the open doorway was the last sight Bifur had expected: Nori.

Filthy. 

Armed.

Riled.

The ex-thief’s braided eyebrows winged upwards, and his feral snarl transitioned into Nori’s rogue’s grin. The tip of Bifur’s boar spear, dripping red blood, dipped towards the floor. “Well, now. Is this what men call arriving fashionably late? If’n you’re done entertaining the rats, I say its time we leave.”

“You took your time,” Bifur heard his cousin jest, earning a look of disbelief from Nori.

“You’ve no idea what it took to reach you,” Nori grumbled. His pale eyes swept over them, intent and (Bifur was convinced) cataloging injuries as he stepped into the room. Bifur knew the moment Nori registered Bifur’s broken hands. His _umral’s_ jaw clenched, and his free thumb tapped out a short, slow, and vehement pattern on his thigh.

He could hear his friend’s thoughts. Someone was going to die. 

Bifur shook his head minutely. _Let it go, Umral._

Nori’s eyes narrowed, but he changed focus, locking eyes with Bifur’s daughter. Nori’s expression gentled. “You’ve no idea how terrified we’ve been. Dori’s got your flute and the pendant.” Saldís swayed. Nori changed the spear to a vertical hold and stepped to her. His free arm collected Saldís into a tight embrace before lifting to coax her forehead to his. “We’ve not the time for explanations, but you listen to your Uncle Nori good, aye? That cretin Valkthor deceived ya again.”

Saldís stiffened. Bifur shifted closer. What was this?

“Finnin lives,” Nori said. 

The air rushed from Bifur’s lungs. The only reason Saldís kept her feet was Nori's clasp. Finnin lived?

“Dori and Anuon have him,” Nori told Saldís, their foreheads yet together. “I won’t lie. He’s in bad shape, but he’s in noways done yet.”

Saldís inhaled shakily. Her hands twisted around Nori’s sleeves. “He lives?”

Nori’s gaze held hers. “To hear Thannor tell it, the lad was more concerned about you than aught else. Tried to drag his fool carcass after you despite being gutted.”

A watery laugh slipped past Saldís’s lips, but then she flinched, her expression pained. “I stabbed him, Nori. I thought…”

“Aye,” Nori said with a wealth of compassion. “Finnin knows exactly what deception was afoot. He’s not blaming you, I promise. If anything, the lad’s likely making Dori’s life difficult with demands to be brought to you. The sooner we rejoin him, the easier he’ll rest.” 

Nori stepped back, right hand rubbing down her arm. A squeeze of her hand, and Nori became all business. 

Almost. The ex-thief smirked at Bofur. “I see your _favorite_ uncle is still in need o’ rescuing.”

OoOoOo

_  
**Desolation of the Morannon**  
_

A hush ruled over the camp of the Host, one broken by brief, sporadic whispers. Tucked behind the Slag Hills, the Eye could not reach the men of Gondor and Rohan, but Aragorn felt Sauron’s gaze attempting to bore through the mounds of gravel, sand, and powdery poisoned earth nonetheless. Unless Sauron struck during the night, the battle for Middle Earth would begin at dawn. 

The king startled when a hand clapped his shoulder, and his hand flew to Andúril’s hilt. Legolas’s soft, “I can feel his gaze attempting to find us,” informed Aragorn who had joined him. 

“He knows where we are,” Aragorn said quietly. “He has no need to search us out.”

“The Rangers keep watch,” Legolas murmured. “Should the Dark Lord intend to take us by surprise, his efforts will fail.”

Heavy footsteps tromped nearer. “Unless he uses his Arcanists,” Gimli grumbled. 

_Thank you, Gimli._ Aragorn spared his friend an exasperated glance. “That is why we are camped here, Master Gimli. Our new allies are confident that despite the Arcanists’ powerful magics, they cannot hide their passage through the Slag Hills. The earth itself would betray their steps.”

Gimli grunted, ax planted at his feet and hands folded atop its handle. Like Aragorn, he faced south, his silence one full of thought. 

Few would sleep this night. None felt at ease, not the Novices, not the men or their allies. The air tasted sour on the tongue, heavy with trepidation. 

Legolas stiffened, and from the periphery, Elrohir and Elladan loped into view. All three elves thrummed with a suddenly escalating disquiet. 

“Legolas?” Aragorn prodded. 

“Noise,” the elf prince whispered. “Beasts head our way in numbers.” His eyes flared. “I hear the jangle of armor. A large force closes in upon us, Aragorn.”

“To arms!” the king bellowed over his shoulder. The camp burst into motion. Aragorn’s self-proclaimed bodyguards materialized before him.

Ziphora gave Aragorn an up-down inspection before scowling. “Couldn’t you wear something less likely to draw attention?” she complained under her breath.

Sivva loaded her blow pipe, her frame tight. Golodir appeared a blink later, jaw tense and sword held unsheathed in his right hand. He placed himself at Sivva’s side without word.

At some silent communication between the elves, Legolas and Elrohir sprinted to the top of the nearest mound among the field of gravel and sand hills, both hunched and keeping low. Silence claimed the men. They’d formed their ranks. They held weapons in hand. The Host was ready.

A second later, the elves straightened in unison. Elrohir glanced down at Aragorn. “You will want to see this for yourself, _Gwador.”_ (Sworn brother) 

Aragorn’s eyebrows rose. Instead of urgency, Elrohir’s voice rang with excitement. Legolas, when he too turned to him, had abandoned all alarm. The elf prince quirked his lips. “Not if you had an Age would you have foreseen this.”

Aragorn blinked. A rush of emotion clogged his throat. Had the Host’s plight just bettered? If so, how?

“What is it?” Sivva demanded from her position at Aragorn’s side.

“Come and see, little one,” Legolas said, gesturing her to join him with one arm. 

Aragorn sprinted up the hill of sand and dirt, aware when two girls kept pace with him. Eomer scaled the hill to his left along with one of his thanes, and Gandalf joined Aragorn along with Mablung and the two Novice boys. In the distance, Aragorn detected the silhouettes of the Rangers he’d stationed on the other edge of the Slag Hills to keep watch on Mordor standing tall. 

Aragorn scanned the vista, and his breath caught. With the night so utterly dark and starless, at first he thought a black tide crashed among the hills, and then swept over some of them, but as the tide neared, Gimli gasped. “She’s done it. By her beard, our lady has done it!”

“Gimli?” Aragorn demanded.

His friend beamed up at him, his frame taller, prouder. “That, lad, is an army of Blacklock warriors. Princess Dís comes with aid.”


	64. The Black Gates

_**Isenmouthe, Mordor  
25 March TA 3019** _

The Eye would not, Durin curse it, stay still. Bofur, Nori, and Adâd had safely snuck across the open square with their feathered charges in tow, but the Eye had returned before Saldís and Ciryan could do the same.

Saldís’s teeth ground together as light flooded the street inches from her pilfered boots, her hale left hand tight about the reins of three squawking _emala._ If the Eye had instead been the Ear, this foolhardy scheme she’d cooked up would have ended a good hour earlier thanks to the birds’ endless stream of complaints. Tempting, indeed, to abandon the creatures, but she and her family needed them.

For now.

But by Mahal, Nori would have his wish when all was done: roasted emala glazed to perfection and served on a skewer. Vengeance. Served on a plate. She’d pluck the bird herself. 

_Mahal._ Saldís mopped sweat from her forehead with the back of her left arm, cognizant when her younger brother (by Durin, _she_ was a _sister)_ noted the telling action. He doubtless drew the correct conclusion. 

Aye, their task was fraught with risk with she and her family stealing through the outpost’s streets with their stolen bounty, testing their luck while the Eye scoured the area north of them, but Ib-Saldís didn’t perspire under stress. ‘Twas the poison to blame for her sudoriferous state, though Saldís tried not to dwell on it. All she could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other and pray for a miracle by the name of Pallando. If the wizard couldn’t save her, there was no saving to be had but a swift dagger from a loved one. 

_This is taking too long._ Aye, Nori had single-handedly executed the Black Númenóreans guarding the outpost…to the last man…by _himself_ (she’d never cease to boggle over that), but moving hundreds of birds while striving for stealth was no swift process. Quite the opposite.

One of her _emala_ cawed loudly, earning it a glare from Saldís and Ciryan both. By Durin, she wished they didn’t need the blasted creatures, but the trip to Durthang, according to all they knew, would take at bare minimum four hours by foot, likely more given her group’s injuries. That spelled a round trip of close to six or seven hours provided the downhill trip proved easier than the uphill. 

The Black Company didn’t have that time given Nori’s reports of Dís, Blacklocks and men closing in on the Black Gates. Her gut clamored that the Free Peoples’ assault would begin at dawn. If Nori was right, that wasn’t more than a few hours away. 

The Eye’s burning gaze fluctuated, and Saldís tensed, preparing to run if it left the crossroads. 

It didn’t. She growled low in her throat. 

With a sigh, Saldís blinked away the blurriness of bone-deep exhaustion from her sight. She could do this. She must. She’d remain upright, she’d finish her task of stealing away the emala in twos and threes—beneath Sauron’s very nose—and she’d get to Durthang. Nothing would stop her.

_Mahal, Finnin, wait for me._

The cry reverberated through her like the ringing of a bell, threatening to destroy her composure. She was frazzled, in pain, and desperate for sleep. Only years of iron self control kept her functioning. Beneath the stoicism she forced upon herself, her emotions raged: desperation (how was she to save her Novices?), pride mixed with anger (what had they been thinking, daring Mordor as they had?), heartache (if she failed and fell, what would it do to Adâd?), and mouth-drying panic (did Finnin truly forgive her?). Underpinning it all, the fierce need to somehow _protect, protect, protect_ her loved ones would have driven her mad if she’d let it. 

Truly, if she let her emotions loose, she’d be a right mess. Instead, she clamped down and refused to let them buck free of her control. _Later,_ she promised herself. When she’d assured herself that her Novices were safe, that Finnin lived ( _Please live)_ , she’d permit herself to break down. 

For now, she had work to do. 

She ignored the throbbing of her useless right arm where it was suspended in a sling and swept the vicinity with a short glance, watchful for signs of life as she waited out the Eye. Just because Nori had cleared the outpost didn’t mean it would remain empty. All it would take was a single soul to wander past, and the game would be up. Her nerves prickled, imagining unseen eyes in each dark window. A trick of the mind, she hoped, though that didn’t stop her from studying a couple closely. 

Saldís tensed and Ciryan hissed as the Eye moved, relinquishing the square to darkness. They sprinted, each dragging _emala_ in their wake. One of Saldís’s birds balked midway across, but Ciryan gave its tail feathers a painful yank, ending its rebellion.

They reached the opposite street, one out of Sauron’s direct sight, without mishap. The most dangerous hurdle was behind them.

For the current batch. Too many _emala_ remained. 

The siblings hurried after Saldís’s adâd and uncles. 

A harrowing hour later, Saldís was distantly stunned to find their task finished. Satisfaction blazed within her. Despite dozens of close calls, they’d _by Mahal_ done it. They’d emptied the place of every last _emala_ …with the Eye being none the wiser. 

Ninety birds were separated from the rest—the strongest and largest—and tethered into four groups, each numbering over a score. ‘Twas asking for trouble, stringing so many together, but what else could they do? They needed the birds, and only four of them had hands fit for leading lines of them.

The rest, Saldís and her family herded away from the area Sauron seemed bent upon scouring. Once beyond the Eye’s gaze, they set the remaining _emala_ free. The lot of them scattered to the four winds, aided by Ciryan tugging on a few more tail feathers, and soon they grew small in the distance.

_Catch us now,_ Saldís purred with a small smile, one that grew when it encountered Ciryan’s smirk. Aye, even if all went to pot later, speed gave the Black Company and Novices a much needed advantage, and she couldn’t help but glow in triumph. Mayhap it was a small victory, but she counted it a win nonetheless.

With Adâd seated behind Nori—his ruined hands left Bifur unable to control a mount, and Saldís with one bum arm was in no condition to help him keep his seat—the group prodded their birds into a gallop. 

Saldís ignored the many complaints of her body and urged her _emala_ to greater speeds. _Hurry,_ each beat of her heart pounded. She wasn’t sure if it was the approaching battle that spurred her onward…or the thought of soon seeing Finnin.

OoOoOo

_  
**The Black Gates, Morannon**  
_

When dawn brushed distant horizons with golden sunlight, the Host converged upon the Black Gates, the Slag Hills at their backs and the dark of Mordor before them. Six thousand men marched in thunderous solidarity to the center of the Morannon, a barren, windswept field devoid of life, with their Blacklock allies mounted and split to flank the men on either side. 

It had been at King Vestin’s insistence that the Blacklocks divided their forces, the hope being that when the Black Númenóreans gained the battlefield, at least one group of dwarves would be close enough to reach them…and bear the brunt of the Arcanists’ fury. Dwarves would die to fire, drowning, and suffocation the same as men, but dwarves could survive such attacks longer, granting them a slight—a very slight, Dís had corrected privately—advantage. 

Aye, Vestin had used the same argument as Dís when she’d argued for seeking out the Blacklocks to begin with, but where she’d intended them to take in orphaned sorcerers in the making, Vestin offered up his own neck—and that of his people—to give Middle Earth a fighting chance. 

She’d sworn then and there to defend Vestin with her life. The Longbeards had suffered mightily for failing to protect Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli. So much promise had been snuffed out. Queen Sissal and the Blacklocks would not experience the same. 

King Aragorn’s arm flew upward, and the men stopped a safe distance from the Black Gates. Dís brought her bronze _gorrah_ to a halt along with the rest of contingent of Blacklocks hugging the men’s right flank. Silence descended upon the field.

Dís’s hand crept up to touch the sapphire pendant she’d worn since her coming of age, a gift from her adâd. A breeze ruffled the many war braids she’d plaited into her hair, one to honor each of her fallen. Beside her, King Vestin inspected Mordor’s imposing and (quite frankly) intimidating walls from astride his copper-red lizard, his young face grim. While he commanded this force, she knew Vestin’s highest ranking officer, Skirfar, led the Blacklocks situated upon the opposite end of the Host. 

_It’s time,_ her nerves clanged. Anticipation threatened to edge out the hopes, worries, and fears that had festered in her mind for too long. 

Hours had passed since she and the Blacklocks had joined the men, sleepless hours of feverish plotting and terrible revelations. Finnur had informed her of all that had happened with the Black Company in her absence, and while some of his news brought rejoicing—the youngest children had been saved from Caeldor—the rest weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

Aye, she’d gotten a bellyful of woeful tidings: Bifur and Bofur captured by Valkthor and dragged into Mordor; Barhador slain; Berenor captured; Kai at death’s door in Dol Hamoth; and Saldís’s Novices (by Mahal, how had the woman managed to sway the teenagers?) unmasked as traitors while trapped within Mordor. 

A life’s worth of experience counseled those in Mordor had perished long before her arrival. There was no way members of the Black Company would sit idle as children were slain, and Dís had said as much to Gondor’s uncrowned king, Aragorn, as they’d plotted. 

“Do not abandon hope so quickly, my lady,” the king had said, and by Durin she’d been impressed by his noble and resolute manner even as she’d bristled. 

“I have lost every member of my family to ventures such as my Longbeards and your Frodo have undertaken,” she’d replied, her voice kept carefully even. Aulë’s hammer, she’d felt so tired in that moment, tired and heart sore. 

Aragorn had dipped his head, compassion written on his face. “Yet our friends are resourceful. If even one survives, we must try to render them aid.” His lips had curled ever so slightly upward. “Dwarves are a hardy folk. This you know. And as I understand it, your people had cause to learn how resilient a folk hobbits are during the quest to reclaim Erebor. Do not discount Frodo and Sam. If Sauron had the Ring, we’d know it.”

A truth, and she’d recognized it as such as soon as he’d spoken it. _Mahal._ She’d rubbed her face, scolding herself for letting fatigue and sorrow affect her judgment. Aye, their friends were resourceful, and Dís for one should not have succumbed to despair so swiftly. 

She’d eyed the king, studying the strong planes of his face through flickering torchlight. Her estimation of him had climbed higher. He, too, bore signs of exhaustion, yet a steely faith burned within his eyes. 

A remarkable man. If they survived this day, she determined to ensure Erebor’s ties with Gondor were renewed. Truly, it had been folly to neglect them.

_As with Dale and Mirkwood before._

Though bolstered by Aragorn’s confidence, she’d felt compelled to warn, “Sauron has the numbers.” 

Aragorn had nodded. “We knew ere we departed Gondor that our numbers could not match Sauron’s. This is a distraction. We do not hope for victory by strength of arms.”

_No,_ the dwarrowdam reminded herself as her focus returned to the present and the Black Gates, _we don’t._ Dís exhaled slowly, quietly, tightening her grip around her _gorrah’s_ reins. 

Frodo. Thorin would be rolling over in his grave to know Bilbo’s heir and nephew was carrying the One Ring to Mount Doom with only another hobbit to guard him. Truly, if any of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had possessed an inkling of Frodo’s peril, Dís didn’t doubt that Dwalin would have ridden forth with all of the surviving members of Thorin’s Company plus an army of Khazâd warriors at his back. 

Aye, Durin’s folk would have hastened to Bilbo and Frodo’s defense. _If_ they’d known. _We should have known,_ she confessed. The Company’s “Fourteenth Member” had deserved better. 

Her _gorrah_ emitted a hum-purr of boredom, and Dís patted its neck gently. Unlike the men’s steeds, most of which had been set free behind the Slag Hills, the _gorrah_ remained with Middle Earth’s defenders. The lizards waited calmly, untouched by the nerves thrumming through the Host’s ranks. 

How the animals would fare in battle, Dís was not sure, but if Vestin’s smug confidence was any indicator, the enemy was about to receive a very unwelcome surprise in the Blacklocks’ _gorrah._

The lizards did enjoy fresh meat.

“What’re we waiting for?” a young Blacklock with exceptionally dark features grumbled. He whirled his big battle ax in an arc, his eyes narrowed on Mordor’s gates. 

“Quiet down, Ganin,” another countered. “The men are almost in position.”

“Without their prancin’ meat bags,” a third muttered with a spark of amusement in his eyes. 

Snickers followed. The Blacklocks, Dís had learned, held nothing but disdain for the preferred mounts of other peoples, and after journeying with them, she conceded the dark dwarves had a point. Horse, _emala,_ ram, or camel, none were equal to the Blacklocks’ lizards in intelligence, fleetness, and reckless bravery. 

“Eh, don’t mind Ganin, Bruni. Always impatient. Though lad? If you woo the way you war, it’s no wonder Vigdis will not have ya. You’ve the patience of a rutting auroch. Like as not, she’s terrified of beddin’ ya.”

A number of dwarves guffawed, and Dár, his _gorrah_ stationed to Dís’s left, rubbed a grin from his face. His blue eyes twinkled. 

Ganin’s spine snapped straight. “Are you implying I’m—”

“Not implying,” Vestin’s right-hand dwarf, Hethin, contributed. “Bori’s outright saying it.”

Ganin sputtered.

“Does a rutting auroch have patience?” another dwarf interrupted in a drawl.

“Nay, Alvur. That’s the _point.”_

More laughter rumbled through the Blacklock ranks, and Dís smiled fleetingly. Her gaze crossed Dár’s a second time, both of them amused, but Dís’s good humor faded quickly. 

She glanced over her shoulder at the Slag Hills. After weeks in his company, she missed Pallando’s quiet presence. Had the wizard yet roused?

_Unlikely,_ reason said. The Blue Wizard had fallen boneless from his mount the instant the Blacklocks had reached the Slag Hills. Alatar and Tharkûn had hurried to their compatriot’s side, but in the end, both could only say that the wizard had dangerously emptied himself in getting the Blacklocks to Mordor. Whether he would rouse before events came to their conclusion, for good or ill, was doubtful. 

Pallando slept now, hidden behind the Slag Hills along with a frantically, furiously working Finnur, all the ale to be found from both armies, and two Rangers of Ithilien deemed too injured to fight unless absolutely necessary. 

Suddenly, Aragorn spurred his horse into a canter, riding out to the foot of Mordor’s towering iron gates with Novice Ziphora seated behind him and Tharkûn’s white robes and horse blindingly obvious at their side. 

_To better bait this trap._ Sauron wanted the Heir of Isildur dead, Dís had been told, so placing both Aragorn and Tharkûn in reach was sure to gain his attention.

Banter ceased, and the Blacklocks readied themselves. Dís freed Death-Bringer from its sheath. _So it begins. May I do you proud, my sons._

Behind the king followed King Eomer of Rohan, Prince Legolas with Gimli, Ranger Halros carrying Aragorn’s standard, and Prince Imrahil. Dís’s lips pinched together, for seated behind Imrahil, she knew, was another halfling to be caught up in events, one Peregrin Took. Aye, the hobbit had the right to choose his own path, but it seemed obscene to her to permit him to ride to Mordor’s very gates. He was so very _small._

The party halted within shouting distance of the gates. Halros unfurled Aragorn’s banner, and a trumpet was blown. 

“Come forth!” the king of men shouted. “Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth that justice might be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils and depart them forever. Come forth!”

A long silence descended. All eyes of the halved Blacklock army and the Host sandwiched between them locked on the gates. Waiting. Hoping. 

_Take the bait,_ Dís willed. For poor Frodo and Sam, for any surviving members of the Black Company and the foolhardy Novices who’d bravely risked death to make a difference… By the Valar, this had to work. 

Time passed. Aragorn was turning his horse in a tight circle, plainly considering abandoning this attempt when booming drums shattered the quiet. Low horns rumbled from behind the Black Gates and slowly the gates parted with a deep, earthen groan. A rift appeared in the solid ebony wall through which emerged six figures, the one in the lead astride a horse bedecked with ghoulish black armor—armor, Dís noted, perfectly matching that of its rider—and the other five upon _emala._

Dís’s focus locked on that first rider, disquiet rising within her. From her position, she couldn’t be sure, but something about that figure appeared subtly wrong. What or who was that? 

“Black Númenóreans,” King Vestin murmured.

Dís inclined her head. “Five of them,” she corrected. The longer she studied the horse’s rider, the more certain she grew. That leader was nothing natural.

OoOoOo

Sivva’s swift inhale was Golodir’s only warning. The Ranger’s arm lashed back to pin the girl to his side, aborting her slide off their horse. Unlike most of the men, he and a handful of Rangers had retained their mounts.

For the present. 

Just in case, and he was thankful for it. All morning, Golodir had fought the temptation to round up the children and drag them as far from Mordor as a horse could carry them. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed. He hoisted her back up, willy-nilly.

“Let me go, you _snakuha,”_ she snapped, wiggling to win free. “Or do you want to see your king dead?”

What a _snakuha_ might be, the Ranger didn’t know. Nor did he care. Golodir shifted his grip and plopped the girl onto his lap.   
A risky act, and he knew it. Sivva was no kitten, though her hissing and spitting often reminded him of one. The Ranger was not yet certain how far the Novices could be pushed before they turned on those wishing to protect them. Even as he wrestled with Sivva, Kyvin and Rizhir frowned from where they now sat behind Rangers Dagoras and Radanir. 

“Sivva, stand down,” came Yanar’s quiet voice from Golodir’s opposite side. Seated behind Elrohir, the older Novice remained wan to Golodir’s jaundiced eye, but determined. 

Sivva frowned at Yanar but ceased from squirming.

“Talk to me,” Golodir said lowly, urgently. “We cannot act on your alarm if we don’t know what has caused it.”

The little spitfire blew a strand of black hair from her face, her hazel eyes flashing. “Are you blind?” With her blade—when, Golodir wanted to know with a spurt of unease, had she drawn that?—she stabbed towards the scene playing out before Mordor’s Black Gates. “The Mouth!” she shrilled. 

“The Mouth?” a handful of men nearby repeated. Frames stiffened, and many visages hardened. 

“The Mouth,” Yanar agreed grimly. “He who was once Kimilzor, Ib-Saldís’s father.”

Golodir’s head jerked, his eyes swift to lock onto the black armored figure leading the other emissaries from Mordor. The Novices had told the Rangers much about the former Lord Sangahyando. Golodir’s grasp on Sivva tightened. There was no way he would permit this small girl to run towards that monster. He wanted her nowhere near it. 

“The king needs us,” Sivva argued to Yanar.

“Mithrandir is by Aragorn’s side,” Golodir countered. 

“But—”

“Look,” Golodir said, bending so that his lips were near Sivva’s ear. He gestured subtly to one side. “The Mouth will focus upon the White Wizard and Aragorn. All of the emissaries are.”

“That’s why—”

“They do not see Alatar. The Blue Wizard remains hidden from their sight.”

A pause. Softer, the girl asked, “How do you know Alatar’s down there?”

“He’s there,” Yanar said softly.

Golodir presented Sivvar with eyebrows lifted high. “You did not see him slip away?”

Disgruntlement flashed across her face. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” Golodir’s lips twitched when Yanar nodded his agreement. “Trust, young one. It is not for you alone to save the world. Let others share in your conquest of Mordor.”

Yanar barked in laughter, the sound welcome for it was further proof the teen had fought his way free of Black Breath. 

Sivva’s head whipped around to stare up at Golodir. Her lips formed words that did not emerge. After a moment, she smirked. “Just so’s you know I _could,”_ she…jested? 

_Eru, let it be a jest._ “I have no doubt.”

OoOoOo

“The Mouth,” Ziphora informed the king as she obeyed his previous orders and scooched forward until she was plastered against the king’s broad back, his cloak covering her. Her skin crawled at the close contact, a reaction ingrained after years of games, and she swallowed back the instant need to put space between them.

Ziphora hoped she was sufficiently hidden from the entourage exiting Mordor. She’d seen what the Eye had done to Yanar, and she didn’t want the Mouth so much as glancing her way. Kimilzor had been cruel to begin with. She wanted no part in whatever he was now. 

Aragorn hummed a low acknowledgment from the back of his throat. 

Ziphora dared a peek beyond his right shoulder, her hair and face shrouded in her scarf. The wizard did not react, though she knew he saw her, and the too-talkative halfling behind Prince Imrahil gaped at her. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “Hide.”

Only by a subtle tensing did Aragorn betray he’d become aware of her minor disobedience. “Ziphora,” he warned under his breath.

She retreated under his cloak, her stomach churning to huddle against him. “The two riders flanking him are Ar-Valgor and Ar-Zirit,” she informed him in a tight voice. “Lords Mordhalor and Lord Vinuir,” she clarified. “Both are Weapons and extremely dangerous, especially Valgor. The other three are Ib- Buhnir, Ib-Govien, and Ib-Shirvah. Shirvah and Govien are Arcanists.”

The White Wizard exchanged a short, speaking glance with (Ziphora assumed) Aragorn from beneath his bushy white eyebrows, but then all expression left his face. Ziphora loaded her blow dart—a precaution—and tried to ignore the body pressed to hers. Denied sight of what occurred in front of the king, she strained instead to hear each sound to fill in the gaps. 

The Mouth’s horse trod closer and closer, each hoof impacting earth like muffled hammers to Ziphora’s ears, and each was accompanied by the jangle of the horse’s heavy tack. Sweat trickled down her spine. 

Jangle and hoof beats ended. A horse’s shrill neigh pierced the air like a blade’s thrust. “Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me?” came the Mouth’s sick and syrupy voice. “Or indeed with the wit to understand me? Not you at least,” he mocked, and Ziphora wondered who the Mouth had directed that towards. _Aragorn or the wizard,_ she guessed. “It needs more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass or a rabble such as this.” 

_Aragorn,_ she concluded with anger. The king was more deserving of honors and accolade than any of _them._ Ziphora had watched the king labor over Yanar for hours during the long ride north. He’d had nothing to gain by doing so—Kyvin and Rizhir had informed him off all he’d needed to know—but he’d done it anyway. 

Aragorn was unlike any leader of men she’d ever known, except perhaps Ib-Saldís. The man’s nobility, strength and compassion had surprised Ziphora…and secured her tentative loyalty. 

What passed next, she didn’t see, but after a prolonged and tense silence, Kimilzor spat, “I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!” What had she missed?

“Where such laws hold,” the wizard responded mildly. “But none has threatened you. You have naught to fear…” ( _Oh, Kimilzor won’t like that,_ Ziphora cackled privately) “…until your errand is done.”

“So! You are the spokesman, old graybeard?” An odd tapping noise reached Ziphora’s ears, and she shivered at the glee dripping from the Mouth’s voice. “Ever hatching plots and plans, but this time you have stuck out your nose too far. I have tokens I was bidden to show thee.” 

Ziphora detected shuffling sounds next, that of movement. _Tokens?_

Whatever the objects were, the halfling’s cry of denial and the king’s jerk told her the Mouth had landed a potent hit. 

“Silence!” Gandalf barked at the halfling.

The Mouth laughed. “Sending halflings to spy? Indeed, you must have been desperate. Is he dear to you, the one who carried these? Know his fate depends on your choice now.”

Ziphora bit her lip. Whoever it was these men feared for was likely already lost. They had to know that. Sauron did not coddle prisoners. Was it Frodo? Sam? 

_No,_ she decided. If Sauron had regained the One Ring, she doubted the Mouth would be bandying about words with Aragorn and the wizard. He’d simply slaughter them.

“Name your terms,” Gandalf demanded.

“Sauron the Great demands in exchange for the halfling that Gondor and its allies retreat beyond the Anduin after swearing never to lift arms to assault Sauron ever again. All lands east of the Anduin will be Sauron’s forevermore. The lands west of the Anduin to the Misty Mountains will be left to govern themselves under the guidance of an adviser of Sauron’s choosing, one more worthy than the bumbling Saruman.” 

_He means himself._ A cold finger of dread wormed down Ziphora’s spine. 

“You ask much for one prisoner,” Gandalf stated.

That odd tapping nose came again. What _was_ that? “Those are the terms. You may take them…or leave them. But know this, the halfling will suffer years within Barad-Dur, years with as much torment as our artistry can contrive.”

“Take or leave them? I will tell you what we will take,” the wizard suddenly thundered. Light flashed, white and pure. “These we will take in memory of our friend, but your terms we reject utterly. We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed, still less one of his slaves. Begone!”

Something happened next that Ziphora felt rather than saw or heard. It seemed a black menace threatened to swallow them all, and she shivered in sudden fear. A second later, it vanished. Hoof beats galloped away, followed by the patter of _emala_ feet. 

Ziphora put much needed space between herself and the king, her skin shuddering. No one noticed. She’d gotten good enough masking that reaction that no one ever did. 

“I won’t believe it,” Aragorn said. “I don’t believe it.”

“He mentioned one hobbit,” the halfling offered, his tone an appeal for reassurance. “Not two.”

Aragorn’s response was lost as the Eye suddenly beamed at them. Mordor’s horns droned. The gates widened, and the air vibrated with the pounding of thousands of feet. 

Ziphora glanced around the king, ignoring the way her skin crawled at the Eye’s glare. She studied the scene unfolding as fast as she could. 

Led by Aragorn, the men spun their mounts about and raced back to the Host. Ziphora glanced back over her shoulder, her grip on the king tight to stay aboard. Orcs, trolls, and wargs stepped onto the battlefield. 

But where, she wanted to know, had the Mouth and her people gone off to?

OoOoOo

The thrice-curse-it nut flung itself from between Finnur’s pinched fingers at the sound of deep, discordant horns. The inventor’s lips flattened as the urgency driving him accumulated spurs such as men used on the most recalcitrant of mounts.

The world might well be ending, all hung in the balance, and he had butterfingers! ‘Twas enough to drive a dwarf to drinking… _if_ all the ale to be had was not already spoken for. 

“Here, Master Finnur.” Slender fingers offered the nut back to him. One of Ranger Mablung’s injured men, he was, Lenar by name. The man had been burned badly across one shoulder and part of his chest when the Rangers of Ithilien had encountered the Black Númenóreans and had been deemed too wounded for full battle. Instead, he and another Ranger injured similarly, Dorrad, ostensibly guarded Finnur and the unconscious Pallando.

What the four o’ them would do if found—and Pallando unconscious!—Finnur couldn’t imagine. They’d be dead meat, and that was that.

Finnur muttered his thanks and returned to his task, twisting the nut around the bottom end of its matching screw. He had to get the holding chamber assembled, and he needed to do it yesterday, by Durin’s beard.

Next came the low thunder of too many marching feet and orcish bellows. A violent twitch claimed the outer corner of Finnur’s left eye and jerked like a dwarfling with his hands on a bell pull. (’twas all he needed.) 

The clash of colliding armies followed.

It had begun.

OoOoOo

Chaos swallowed Sivva whole. One moment, she stood on foot behind Aragorn, a scimitar in each hand ready to protect the king, the next orcs rammed into the men’s lines and over them upon wargs. Men screamed, the cries pain- and fear-filled. Chills raced down her spine.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t—

Big foes surrounded her, loomed over her in a way that made her feel very, very young. Sivva had taken part in skirmishes before— _Practice,_ a part of her corrected—and she’d killed, but nothing could have prepared her for war on this scale. Now, she fully understood why Aragorn had commanded the Rangers from their mounts. Adding horses to the fray in such tight quarters would have been a stupid and costly mistake. 

A man in Gondorian armor bumped into her from the left, almost sending her to the ground. _Focus!_ She tried to shake off the shock slowing her reflexes. 

Sivva slashed the neck of an orc who thought her an easy target. She then changed her grip and jabbed to one side, thrusting her scimitar into the mouth of a warg who’d managed to pounce on a man in Swan Knight armor and looked seconds from tackling her next. 

The warg died. What happened to the Swan Knight, she didn’t know. He struggled to get up, so he lived, but between one blink and the next, he vanished behind more foes.

Sivva jerked her blade free and backpedaled to Aragorn’s rear. Her scimitars flew in a pattern more instinct than anything after years of drilling. Parry, slash, block, dodge, thrust—it was the dance of war, and she’d been molded to it from the time she’d been five. Slowly, the fear of uncertainty fled as her confidence returned. She was outnumbered, but she was _better._

Yanar, she noticed, engaged an orc four yards away who thought to spear the king. Rizhir and Kyvin fought beside him, the three doing a good job protecting one another. 

A spurt of jealously flared to life at the brotherhood they displayed, but it faded as she realized she, too, didn’t fight alone. The king himself covered her backside as she did his, and Golodir was an ever-present shadow, one that _wasn’t needed,_ she groused privately, but so long as he didn’t foul her up, she bit her tongue. He protected Aragorn’s flank as well as hers and Ziphora’s. If the boys had formed a dangerous team, so had Ziphora, Golodir, Aragorn, and Sivva. 

Mostly, though, it was Golodir. Time and again, she witnessed him taking dangerous risks to safeguard Sivva and Ziphora. Time and again, he proved a deadly foe by surviving such risks with minimal injury. 

Sivva was slowly and irrevocably impressed.

OoOoOo

Yanar fought.

It felt like that was all he’d ever done. Fight the person before him, then the next and the next until his soul wearied of it. The Black Breath was gone, the unnatural despair banished, but in its wake, he was left tired. 

_Keep going._

So he told himself over and over again. This battle, too, would end, and until that happened, he would not bow to exhaustion. He kept his scimitar flashing, his feet moving, and his eyes upon his teammates. 

Sivva and Ziphora guarded the king—Yanar’s king, for the man had called Yanar out of darkness, and Yanar owed Aragorn everything for that—but that didn’t mean Yanar didn’t watch. If the girls or the king showed any sign of faltering, Yanar stood ready to intervene. 

He just had to keep going.

OoOoOo

Thorin’s broadsword drank its fill. Dís, unseated by a brutal collision with a warg, fought beside her _gorrah,_ her teeth bared in a feral grin to watch the way orcs and wargs alike shied away from the animal—nay, from all the _gorrah._ It had not taken the enemy long to discover the lizards were lethal with their razor-sharp teeth, ripping claws, and lashing tails, just as it hadn’t taken Dís but a minute to be forever won over by the lizard she’d been paired with.

It stayed with her. Though teamed together less than two weeks, its sharp eyes spotted threats to her before she did…and destroyed them. Truly, the dam wondered, each gorrah was a small army in and of itself, and as a screech filled the air to her right and her head whipped around, ‘twas plain the enemy had concluded the same…

..and had begun to target them. A red-hued _gorrah_ lunged backward on two legs, wailing as it toppled backward with its torso impaled by no less than eight heavy spears. Orcs swarmed over it to ensure it stayed down. Blacklocks and _gorrah_ reacted in a flash, surging towards the attackers, but whether they saved the animal—whether it could be saved—Dís didn’t see. 

Her jaw clenched. With a single swipe, she cut an orc in half who’d hefted a spear with beady eyes clapped onto her mount. _Not this day,_ she hissed. 

By Durin’s bones, she wished the Blacklocks had brought a thousand of the _gorrah,_ for they were boon companions indeed. Perhaps then the tide would turn in their favor. As it stood, even the gorrah’s viciousness failed to compensate for the overwhelming numbers stacked against them. Mordor’s forces had surrounded the Host and the Blacklocks, trapping all in a misshapen clump of resistance. 

Still, the fire in her soul blazed brightly. If time was what Frodo needed, time he would have. Aye, even if this day claimed her life. But until then…

Vengeance was hers. _For you, my Fíli,_ she thought as she cut a warg’s legs out from under it. _For you, Kíli._ A second swing decapitated the warg’s rider, and a downward thrust pierced the warg’s heart, ending the creature. 

Whether the Host found victory or not, Dís vowed Sauron would suffer heavy losses this day.

OoOoOo

_  
**Durthang Road, Mordor**  
_

Saldís’s _emala_ surged up the Durthang Road, its bony feet propelling the tired creature along at a clip much diminished from when they’d begun. Thannor had joined them shortly after they’d started their ascent and now led the way on an _emala_ of his own. He’d taken charge of both Bifur and the birds Nori had started with so that Nori could fall back to guard their rear unencumbered. 

The precaution was likely unnecessary, but as Nori had said, the Black Company’s luck had been rubbish more than not. Better to be safe than sorry.

Despite the awkwardness of doing so, Ciryan had stationed his mount a bare two feet from Saldís’s left flank, while Uncle Bofur and his flock raced along behind. Ciryan, Saldís was increasingly certain as time passed, was hugging her side to better keep an eye on her. Time and again, his shadowed face turned in her direction, his frame tense. 

Deprived of an immediate task on which to focus, Saldís’s mind kept turning to Finnin, causing her eyes to brim with tears more than once. Each time, she forced them back, hardening herself—’twas not the time yet—yet the end was the same. With every progressing minute, the frantic need to see him threatened to dethrone her composure. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep inhale. _Keep focused,_ she told herself. _One thing at a time._

Steadied, she returned her attention to her surroundings, Adâd, Ciryan, and what to do about—

The distant thunder of war drums caused her heart to skip a beat. Mordor’s horns moaned lowly. 

Urkhas. Kûd.

The urgency driving her acquired a pitchfork with sharp prongs. Saldís glowered at the jagged wall of the Morgai, furious that the lesser mountain range thwarted her attempts to glimpse of Udûn and the Black Gates. What was happening? 

Stupid question. War was happening. Gondor or the Blacklocks—perhaps both—had reached the Black Gates. The countdown had started, and by its conclusion, the battle below would be over and the fate of too many would be irrevocably decided. If she wished to alter the outcome, to contribute, she had to move faster. 

_Durin’s ax._ For Saldís, for her surviving Novices, for Finnin and The Brothers, could not the Gondorians have waited one more accursed hour? 

Fingerlings of heaviness spread through her. She had to reach her Novices, concoct a plan to get them all out of Mordor, and she needed to do it anon. Of _course_ the poison would choose now to act, slyly whispering words of woe and despair. Of _course_ it would endeavor to add additional shackles of exhaustion to her already burdened body. 

Saldís shivered with a sudden chill, and when her train of _emala_ abruptly flocked to one side, shying away from who knew what, she was half ripped from her saddle. Ciryan’s right hand lashed out to grab her, the only reason she did not end up trample beneath dozens of _emala_ feet. 

Her brother. She tossed him a glance of pure gratitude and received his nod in return.

By Mahal. A brother. One as unlike Valkthor as night from day.

Saldís didn’t know how to be a sister, not really, but the longer they two had ridden in silence, the more an invisible bond had formed between them. ‘Twas an unspoken accord, a wordless acknowledgment: _nadad_ and _namad,_ they were, and they would have each other’s backs from here on out. 

Be her life short or long, she vowed not to neglect this or any of the other undeserved gifts she’d been given. She would not fail Ciryan, or Adâd, Finnin, and The Brothers, and by Durin’s mighty ax, she would not willingly abandon them. Death would find in her an intractable victim. 

_It won’t win,_ she swore with a life’s worth of gritty determination. If Pallando traveled with Dís, Saldís need only endure long enough to reach him. As Akhora and Saldís, she’d mapped the black depths of despair, the fiery reaches of pain, and the stinging fields of loss. She was a Weapon and a commander of Weapons. She would never submit to Sauron’s vile poison. 

More time passed. Fatigue pressed harder upon her, invading her mind with dandelion puffs until…she nodded off. 

She fell asleep. 

While on the most important mission of her life. 

Ciryan again intervened, she hoped before anyone else had noticed her lapse. _Mahal, truly?_ A sick feeling spread from her core—a fear of her own limitations when she did not have time for them—but a measure of warm trust edged it aside. For whatever reason, Ciryan took his role as brother seriously, and she could not help but be thankful for it. 

The Morgai abruptly fell away, exposing the road’s right shoulder to open air and a perilous drop. Thannor pulled his mount and line of birds to a squawking halt with Saldís a bare second behind him. 

_Finally._ Saldís kneed her _emala_ to the road’s edge, ignoring the lethal drop at her _emala’s_ feet. All of Mordor lay stretched out before her like a map.

“Mahal,” she muttered as she focused upon the battle raging miles to the north. Saldís had hoped for a mighty assembly of men, an army of legendary proportions. Instead… 

“They are vastly outnumbered,” Thannor said. 

_Aye,_ she thought. In the gray of morning—Mordor’s black shroud prohibiting anything more—one could pick out the men by their tabards and standards. The Blacklocks she found by seeking armor of darker hue than any orc’s. Surrounded on all sides though they were, men and dwarves fought, and they fought hard from what she could see. 

But there was no victory in the struggle below, not with the army of Black Númenóreans biding their time behind the Black Gates. No, Ib-Saldís knew battles, and what she read before her spelled defeat both for the men and dwarves fighting…and for the rest of Middle Earth. If this was all the might Gondor could muster, the rest of the free lands were doomed. 

“So few,” she said. The odds stacked against a future of life and love for herself and her companions had just climbed terribly high. 

“To attempt Mordor without more allies is madness. What is Denethor thinking?” Thannor’s gaze cut to Saldís, ripe with speculation. “Or is there something else afoot?” he asked. 

Saldís scowled. ‘Twas maddening not knowing. She wiggled tension from her spine. “Let us hope it is the latter.” 

Thannor spun his _emala_ about. “Time is not our ally. Fly!”

OoOoOo

_  
**Durthang, Mordor**  
_

Ciryan heaved a sigh of relief when Durthang at last appeared. Ciryan didn’t know about anyone else, but he knew by the lines bracketing his sister’s mouth that the distant sounds of battle had hounded her. She’d chafed with frustration and impatience since the drums had first rumbled to life. 

He was with her, there. The burning, itching need to _do something_ had crackled through his nerves like a fiery serpent. He didn’t know what Saldís had planned, but time was plainly not on their side. 

Durthang’s portcullis groaned upward as he brought his bird to a halt, and someone—he was too busy keeping an eye on his sister to look—shouted an all’s-well from the battlements overhead. Teammates spilled out of the keep, many displaying relief upon seeing himself and Ib-Saldís alive. 

Though he supposed they must be bursting with questions, Ciryan’s teammates took charge of the _emala_ quietly while the blond Ranger, Erynor, strode to Thannor with a furious Yahzin hot on his heels. 

Ciryan slid from his saddle and hurried to Saldís’s side. He watched her like a hawk as she slowly dismounted, lines of pain marking her face. 

Ciryan kept by his sister’s side— _his_ sister Saldís, who’d trusted _him_ to watch over her all the way up the mountain—as they marched towards Durthang’s open portcullis. Her pace accelerated, and though he thought no one else noticed, a frantic glint appeared in her eyes and her lips began to tremble. 

_The dwarf,_ he realized. _Finnin._ An unexpected fist of jealousy punched him. When Saldís’s father and uncles fell in behind them, it deepened. 

Another dwarf materialized from the passageway to the right, a gray-haired fellow with drawn features and wild eyes. The instant he spotted Ciryan’s sister and the other dwarves, the new arrival gave a low cry and rushed forward. 

Ciryan tensed. He couldn’t help it. Yes, he could see from the way his sister relaxed a notch that this dwarf was trusted, but Ciryan didn’t know this fellow, and he was finding he didn’t much like sharing his new sister. 

How many people did Ciryan have to share her with? She was _his_ sister, his only family ever, and in that moment, he resented everyone else for disrupting the new bond forming between them. 

It was stupid, but it was also the truth. 

Ciryan exhaled slowly, trying to slough off the unwelcome emotions. He’d try to be a good brother, not that he had any experience to help him. If these others made her happy, then he’d deal with it, especially where her “adâd” and Finnin were concerned.

It might be the only thing he _could_ do for his sister before the poison stole her. She might think she hid the toll the poison took on her, but she didn’t. Not from Ciryan. 

He hated the helpless feeling that roiled through him each time he looked her way. She was suffering, _weakening,_ and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. 

Life, he thought grimly, was never fair.

OoOoOo

Saldís was only peripherally aware of dark halls and surprised faces as she followed Dori to the keep’s main hall. A roaring had filled her ears the instant Dori had said he’d take her to Finnin. If anyone spoke to her afterward, she didn’t know it.

With each step, Saldís shook harder, her composure fraying. _Mahal._ Would Finnin forgive her? Nori had professed Finnin understood, and doubtless Finnin had expressed it, but as the event replayed in his mind, would he hold to that? Or would distrust fester as time passed, seeding bitterness and disgust? 

_Please,_ she found herself begging. _Please._

What her expression was like, she couldn’t say. She imagined her face was stark with raw, jagged-edged grief. That and fear. Desperation climbed with each step she took. She could no more school her features into placidity than bodily wrestle Barad-Dur to the ground.

Novices parted like magic before Dori, and she thought some greeted her as she passed. It was all she could do not to trip over her own feet as she silently pleaded with Dori to hurry. 

The low rumble of dozens of conversations reached her, originating through an open archway. A low glow emanated from within. That had to be their destination. It had to be. 

Saldís bolted past Dori and into a grime-darkened stone hall. Torches flickered in regular intervals along the high-ceilinged, rectangular space, and her nose detected something cooking. 

_Where?_ She stumbled deeper inside, turning, blind to all else as she scanned for one specific, golden-bearded head. Tears rushed and receded in waves as she searched…searched… 

A low, choked sound escaped her. Nestled among the other makeshift pallets hugging the south wall, Saldís found her Finnin. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe for drinking in the sight of his muscular body and messy blond hair. 

Her feet sprouted wings. In a blink, she was at his side, only somewhat aware that Ciryan stayed by her side. Saldís dropped to her knees, heart banging against her breastbone. The fingers of her left hand extended, trembling, and connected with fever-hot skin. She swallowed as her fingertips smoothed down Finnin’s bearded cheek before migrating to his torso…until they grazed the thick pad of bandages wrapped around his middle. 

She shuddered. Tricked or not, _she_ had done this to him, and she’d never forgive herself. The hairy chest beneath her hand rose and fell, a sensation she’d so yearned for when weeping over his “dead” body that her composure shattered. Saldís burst into tears. 

Sitting on her heels, Saldís stuffed her hand to her lips to muffle her cries. ‘Twas a lost cause. She then pressed the hand over her eyes, her torso shaking with the force of her sobs. Finnin lived. He _lived._

A hand came to her shoulder and squeezed. Ciryan, she knew without looking. Her _nadadith_ (little brother) once again came to her aid unasked. For one new to brotherhood, she thought, he took to it like a duck to water. He had no idea the strength he imbued her with.

OoOoOo

Bifur had just been helped to a seat, Bofur beside him so that Dori could tend their wounds, when sobs reached him. _Saldís._ She wept over Finnin, and the sound of her heartbreak tore at his own heart.

He’d half a mind to rise and go to her—more than half, truthfully—but Nori pinned him in place. Dori, focused upon inspecting Bifur’s hands, teared up but never halted his ministrations. 

“Stay put,” Nori grumbled.

“She needs—”

“Her _nadad_ is with her. Let him do this, _Umral._ If’n you’ve not noticed, he’s needing the chance to prove himself. Like as not, he’s never had family before. Let him test his wings, eh?”

Bifur growled, prepared to argue—his daughter needed him, and he’d by Mahal hie himself to her side—but then Ciryan placed a hand on her shoulder, and the urge to stomp over vanished. 

_Aye,_ he thought, his throat tightening at the tender scene unfolding before him. _Nori has the right of it._

Bifur stayed put. But none could stop him from shedding tears of his own as his Saldís’s heart broke.

OoOoOo

Saldís lowered her hand, sniffling and trying to staunch the flow of tears. Finnin lived, and her heart overflowed with relief to know it. Her warrior lived.

She leaned forward to rest her forehead against Finnin’s. Though fever kept him senseless and his eyelids remained closed, she whispered brokenly, “I love you, Finnin, son of Finnar.” 

She buried her nose in his hair, nuzzling her warrior for a long minute. In the back of her mind, the knowledge festered that this was stolen time. The inner clock tabulating the minutes since the battle at the gates had begun sounded its warning. War awaited. Duty called, and her Novices needed her. 

She was selfish, aye she was, but not quite selfish enough to turn her back on her Novices, her family, and all of Middle Earth while she consoled herself. If Mordor was not halted this day, if the armies battling before the Black Gates were overcome, it was doubtful it would be stopped at all. Gondor was the strongest of all the kingdoms of Middle Earth. If it fell due to a crushing defeat this day…

_Disaster,_ her soul whispered. 

So. Victory must be wrung from this desperate situation, or it was doubtful Mordor would ever be stopped. No matter the cost, she could not ignore that. 

One last kiss was all she permitted herself, the softest brushing of her lips to Finnin’s. Her eyes closed as she endeavored to memorize the feel of him alive and breathing beneath her hand. His scent, the scratchiness of his beard against her face, the texture of the skin upon his neck and shoulders as her fingers trailed over them, they were all committed to memory. 

The lips beneath hers moved.

Saldís jerked upright with a gasp. “Finnin?”

Through narrow slits, Tane blue eyes peeked out. His lips moved again, but no sound emerged.

She caressed his cheek, and a ghost of a smile graced his lips before his eyes closed. Finnin succumbed to unconsciousness once more.

Saldís leaned close again to whisper in his ear, _“Men lananubukhs menu.”_ (I love you.) “And somehow, I’m going to do the impossible.” Get the wounded to safety. See to it that Sauron’s forces were defeated. Ensure her Novices had a future…and she and Finnin as well. 

A tall order, she thought with a touch of absurdity. 

A glance to her _nadad_ conveyed a shared awareness that time was wasting. Ciryan was no inexperienced Gondorian lad. Like herself, he’d been molded in the forges of Caeldor, and he could read their situation the same as she. They had to ride to war, and they both knew it. 

Saldís’s gaze swept over the injured Novices laying on crude pallets nearby, counting them, measuring the severity of their wounds. _We’ll need fighters to escort them._ ‘Twas a necessity that would cost them fighters on the battlefront, but there was no getting around it. 

Spying Berenor asleep on his own pallet only solidified the plans forming in her mind. He could not fight, not in open combat against overwhelming foes. Nor could a number of Novices. But mayhap he could wield a bow? 

She nibbled on the corner of her lip as she stood, her focus broadening. Her eyes flared to find her Novices lined up in tidy rows, all of them at attention. As if her notice was the signal they’d waited for, Novice after Novice lifted fist to heart. 

Gooseflesh broke out upon her skin. _By the Valar._ They payed her homage. 

She didn’t deserve this. She’d failed them at the worst possible time. She’d been but a heartbeat away from permitting them to be cut down before her eyes, and—

Her breath hitched as Ciryan joined them. Positioning himself before her with shoulders back and head carried high, her _nadad’s_ fist too found his heart. Silver-gray eyes seared into hers with burning intensity. “Lead us, Commander,” he said. Then softer, “Sister.”

It stole her breath, this show of loyalty. Especially from Ciryan! She’d tried to murder him mere hours prior, yet here her _nadadith_ stood, radiating confidence. In _her._

Saldís blinked back a sudden surge of tears, humbled yet so proud of these survivors that the feeling burned like a hot coal in her chest. These teens had weathered the worst, yet when they’d chosen to fight the good fight and suffered loses, still they did not recant their decision. They could have blamed her for the lofty ideals she’d instilled. Instead, they saluted. 

_Eru. Let me not fail them._ They were miracles, each and every one of them, and as her gaze stumbled upon Ilhia, the notion intensified. 

_Ilhia,_ Saldís whispered privately, she whom Saldís had banished from her team for betraying Mazir. The slender girl’s weight shifted subtly from foot to foot, revealing uncertainty, but her chin was set. The girl’s wide eyes begged to be believed as she slowly, earnestly, copied the salute the others had given. Ilhia was swearing her fealty, placing her fate into Saldís’s hands, and they both knew it. 

Ciryan bristled, his lanky frame stiffening. Saldís touched her brother’s wrist, silently asking him to trust her. He wasn’t happy, but he subsided.

Saldís faced Ilhia and inclined her head. The Novice echoed her. Apology offered and accepted. There was no strife between them. “Welcome to the team, Ilhia,” Saldís said. 

The girl nodded jerkily, her lips trembling as they dared a small smile. 

Saldís exhaled, mind racing with all she had to do to organize her Novices and get everyone out of Durthang as fast as possible. To Ciryan, she directed, “Where is…?” Her words faltered when she found the answer herself. 

Adâd sat rigidly against another wall, the pale hue of his skin and the sheen of sweat telling her the agony he endured while Dori painstakingly attempted to right the bones in his right hand. Nori squatted beside the two, holding Bifur still while a few feet away, Erynor tended to Bofur’s injuries. 

For Bofur and Bifur, Saldís wished time permitted them a space to rest and heal, but it was a lost cause. What was, was. Already, she and her comrades might be too late to help those fighting.

‘Twas then that Calenor burst into the room. Saldís’s words of greeting died on her tongue at the distraught expression upon his face. “Thannor said to tell you,” he said with zero fanfare. “The Black Númenóreans are marching. They will enter the battlefield in minutes.”

Silence. Scores of eyes panned towards Saldís.

_Forgive me,_ she thought, the words as much prayer as plea that her Novices would understand. As much as she loathed the idea of leading her charges into war, it was the only option. For them and Middle Earth.

She girded herself inwardly, standing taller. Her gaze danced from Novice to Novice, seeing each, remembering each. _If this be our fate, let us teach Sauron the folly of underestimating the “weak” and “young”. Let the Black Númenóreans regret every hand ever lifted against us._

_If_ her Novices agreed. 

She refused to coerce them. If any wished to flee, she’d by Mahal ensure they got the best chance possible of escaping. These Novices had earned that, and Saldís would spend every drop of blood in her body making sure they got it. 

But knowing them, knowing their strength and courage, Saldís doubted fleeing would be forefront on their minds. No, like her, they’d want justice. Vengeance. They were warriors despite their age. 

“As you are doubtless aware,” she told them, pitching her voice to carry to the farthest corners of the hall, “Gondor is battling Mordor before the Black Gates. By my best estimates, five thousand men fight vastly larger numbers of orcs for their lives, their kingdom, and all of Middle Earth.”

Murmurs. Darted glances between fellows.

“With them is a force of Blacklocks, led by my liege, Lady Dís.” Saldís’s lips crooked. “I spoke to you of her before.” 

A sprinkling of nods answered her.

“This is it,” Saldís told them, stepping forward into their midst. “What happens next will determine Middle Earth’s fate. Because if Gondor falls, who will be left to stand?”

Thannor appeared in the doorway, and it was he who answered in a heavy voice, “No one.” Never had he looked so grave, almost ashen. By his side, Yahzin tapped her sword’s hilt, face pensive and eyes intent. 

“No one,” Saldís agreed. To her Novices, “This is not what I would wish for you. I would wish you leagues away, safe and free.” Her lips tilted in a sad smile. “But you aren’t. We are trapped in Mordor. The fate of the world hangs in the balance. And so… I ask you. I will not command. I ask. Will those of you capable take up arms with me? Will you join me in once and for all making sure the Dark Lord regrets he ever commanded Caeldor’s Dens and training grounds into existence?”

Anuon, just entering the room, froze, his eyebrows flying high. 

Berenor hoisted himself upright on one arm, expression pinched, eyes in turmoil.

Erynor glanced at Yahzin, worried, while Calenor leaned against the wall behind him and swallowed hard. 

Adâd stared at his broken hands, and Dori gaped at her, appalled. 

Nori held her gaze for a long moment before nodding shortly. 

But it was Gylmal and Tahal who made their way to the front of the room, and Tahal who broke the silence. “Tell us what to do. Our swords are yours.”


	65. To War!

_**The Morannon, Mordor** _

Golodir’s skin crawled as a nameless dread stole over him, sudden and overpowering. He slew the foe before him quickly before lifting his head. What was…? 

Memory stirred. For one precious second, Golodir stood not on a bloody battlefield with the snarls of orcs and wargs filling his ears. He once again sat upon cracked stone stairs and sharpened his sword while Orodon answered Aragorn’s questions about Black Númenóreans and their Arcanists. 

“Trust me,” the younger man had assured, his demeanor uncharacteristically hard. “If an Arcanist begins to use sorcery in your vicinity, you will sense it. The very air around the sorcerer will feel foul to you.”

Golodir’s grip on his sword tightened. He countered a thrust from an orc to his left and dodged another from his right. So. The Black Númenóreans joined the battle at last. “Aragorn!” he bellowed over one shoulder. Did his liege sense the growing threat?

“Halros, give three blasts of the horn,” Aragorn shouted, but Halros was ahead of him. Before the king’s words were completed, Gondor’s horn pealed once, twice, thrice. The Host had been warned of this new danger, and Golodir saw heads turn, searching their surroundings even as they continued to battle for their lives.

“Stay sharp, old man,” Sivva said, her gruff tone belied by the white fear on her face. 

Golodir again struggled with the impulse to toss the girl on his back and run her as far from this battle as he could. _Too late,_ he growled with a wealth of regret and self-castigation. 

Yes, it was far, far too late to extricate the diminutive girl or her older counterparts. And truly, a part of him reminded grimly, these children were more prepared for what next came than the rest of the Host.

It was his last thought before a torrent of screaming wind slammed through orcs and into the men’s front ranks. Golodir was catapulted off his feet. He crashed into others behind him, and they fell to the ground. The Ranger gasped, the breath torn from his lungs. From the corner of his right eye, he spotted Aragorn within another pile of men and struggling to regain his feet. Little Sivva crouched by the king, her scimitars dispatching the enemies caught in the same trap as the men. 

She was unhurt. Relief washed over him like a wave. Ziphora and Yanar, too, he managed to ascertain in the next second.

But then came fire.

OoOoOo

Dís tensed as a wall of fire mowed over the heads of the hundred or so men felled seconds before by a great burst of wind. Whether such had been the aim or happenstance, the front ranks of the Host had a chance of survival as close as they were to the ground, while those who’d remained afoot behind them were engulfed like dry tinder. Terrible screams rose above the din of war, and shouts as men untouched tried to save their burning companions. The stink of burnt flesh permeated the battleground.

“Mahal,” Dís heard a Blacklock mutter from her left, the sound almost drowned out by the roaring in Dís’s ears. 

Righteous fury flamed to life in her breast, one hotter than the enemy’s fires. _The cowards._ The Black Númenóreans had waited. They’d bided their time until the Host and Blacklocks were embroiled in battle, too consumed with keeping blades from their necks and arrows from their hearts to notice new arrivals. 

_“Baruk Khazâd!”_ King Vestin roared with Gorim’s black ax hefted overhead. The king lowered it in a clear order to charge, and Blacklocks all around shouted their agreement. Dís took up the cry, too, shouting with all her might. 

Hundreds of dwarves vaulted onto _gorrah_ backs in unison, some singly, some riding in pairs. _Gorrah_ charged like rivulets merging into a powerful river. They plowed over any foe in their path, trampling orcs underfoot. 

Death-Bringer stabbed left and right. She cursed Sauron, willing him to the deepest reaches of the Pit for this latest latest affront. Still, she kept her eye upon Vestin, assuring herself the young king survived. She spotted Dár, too. The hunter’s white head was three _gorrah_ before her, and his bow unleashed death on those his lizard did not eviscerate first. 

The Blacklocks broke free of the orc lines. Empty space alone separated the Blacklocks from the thousands of black-clad Númenóreans waiting just before the Black Gates on foot. Worse, more orcs and trolls spilled out of Mordor’s open gates behind them, pushing and shoving in their eagerness to join the fray. 

_So many,_ she thought with dismay. 

Dís, daughter of Thrain, sister to the great Thorin Oakenshield, girded herself. Numbers couldn’t matter. The Black Númenóreans had to fall. Be the cost ever so steep, the evil sons of Numenor must be destroyed. 

_So be it._ This day, Aulë’s children would gain renown. This day, heroes would be made and the Khazâd would once more remind the world of their mettle. Aye, songs would be sung, recounting the courage of the brave souls riding beside her. 

_“Ifridîzun!”_ Dís hollered. (Ready yourselves!) _Gorrah_ bellowed challenges, unified to the last with their riders. Dís took a deep inhale and braced herself for the foul Arcanists’ next magical strike. It wouldn’t be long in coming. 

As if summoned by the unwise thought, earth cracked and screamed, swallowing every other sound. A jagged fissure abruptly opened up beneath the feet of those but a ten meters ahead of Dís. Dwarves and lizards that had been running across solid ground plummeted, flailing, as they were dumped into the new gorge. _Gorrah_ screamed, and dwarves shouted as the victims vanished. 

“By the seven dwarf fathers,” Dís rasped. Vestin. Had he…?

But no. She spotted the king’s red lizard veer to one side to give it time to collect itself for the jump—and by Durin, the _gorrah_ made the difficult leap, she rejoiced—before her own _gorrah’s_ muscles bunched beneath her thighs. It vaulted across the three meter wide rift. Dís caught a brief glimpse of a bottomless hole beneath her and a handful of lizards frantically scrambling for purchase up the far wall of the fissure in a desperate bid to recover from an inadequate leap.

Then she and her gorrah were past. The breath rushed from Dís’s lungs. Her mount loudly chuffed its victory before warbling as if pleased with himself, the low sound vibrating through Dís’s legs. At her nudge, the _gorrah_ fell in beside Vestin. The Blacklocks continued their charge. 

But reaching their foe was not destined to be so easily accomplished as that. A dozen boulder-sized fireballs burst into existence within the empty space before the Black Númenóreans. Between one breath and the next they flew into the _gorrah_ ranks. Dís flinched away from one that shot by her left side—Mahal, it was close enough that her skin prickled from the heat—but it was Ganin who took the brunt of it, the impatient lad who’d been teased so mercilessly but a score of minutes before. The fireball slammed into his _gorrah’s_ chest—the creature had jumped to take the blow and spare its rider—and both tumbled over backwards. 

Dís’s teeth ground together, and grief punched her hard. She risked a glance behind, needing to know the lad’s fate. 

A man and horse would have died. Ganin and his _gorrah_ …didn’t. Both rider and animal rolled to quench the flames licking them. They were wounded badly, no two ways about it, but by Durin they lived. 

Two seconds later, seconds Dís silently counted down to herself as the time seemed to stretch into infinity… _one…two…_ Dís and the Blacklocks smashed into the Black Númenórean lines. Her _gorrah_ screamed in fury as blades pierced its hide, and Death-Bringer swiftly swung to lob off the head of a Weapon intent upon attacking Vestin. 

“Spread out! Find the sorcerers!” Vestin shouted in Khuzdul, a call picked up by other throats.

_Aye._ The Blacklocks would be too easy a target if they remained clumped together. That obscene spell that had opened up the earth was proof of that. Nay, better to spread out even if it meant facing more blades individually. 

Dís jumped from her saddle, freeing her _gorrah_ to defend itself unencumbered. Moving around the lizard’s attacks, jumping as its tail swept the ground around them and knocked many enemies from their feet, she made her way to Vestin’s side, engaging and cutting down any tripped by her lizard as she went. 

Hethin, she found, had already claimed Vestin’s opposite side. Dam’s eyes met dwarf’s for one second in accord. If any dwarf survived this day, it would be Vestin. They two would ensure it.

Weapons swarmed around and—Dís’s heart gave a painful pang—through one of the lizards (Hethin’s?), and then it was jab, parry, and _move_ as she was pressed and harried like never before in her life. If not for bouts with Saldís, Dís would have died in those first few minutes. 

Many Blacklocks did. Some fell before enemy scimitars, others to fire, water, earth and air.

_Too many,_ her heart whispered. Too many had fallen already and far too fast. 

This was a losing effort. Six hundred Blacklocks against thousands of Númenóreans? Aye, most of the Khazâd would die this day. 

_Let us take enough of them with us to matter,_ she prayed. Let them do their people proud. 

For Frodo. 

To give one hobbit the chance to save the world. 

_I’m sorry, Dwalin._ She did not expect to return to the dwarf who’d become brother in all but name.

OoOoOo

_  
**Southern Durthang Road, Mordor**  
_

There was not an inch of Berenor’s body that did not scream in pain as he ruthlessly forced it to function. He sat upright upon a running _emala_ with bow in his raw and throbbing left hand, a quiver strapped to his lacerated back, and seventeen wounded Novices plus one dwarf in his charge. 

The unconscious Finnin rested against Berenor’s chest, tied there to free up Berenor’s hands, and the dwarf’s weight…hurt. The pressure on Berenor’s battered body was nothing short of excruciating, but Berenor could do nothing but endure it. None of the Novices were strong enough to bear Finnin upright, and given the dwarf’s injuries, Finnin could not be moved any other way. Even as it was, Berenor feared the dwarf’s wounds would reopen. An _emala’s_ pace was smooth when measured against that of a horse’s, but it wasn’t the sickbed the dwarf needed. 

For Saldís’s sake, Berenor hoped dwarves were as hardy as they claimed. Finnin had to survive. 

Behind Berenor, the Novices too wounded for open warfare sat their mounts as gingerly as he, most of them anyway. Those few incapacitated worse rode behind teammates. Only one other soul was unconscious, a girl with fiery red hair—an older version of the cherub The Brothers had been captured attempting to save. (Eru, but it seemed a lifetime ago.) 

Other than the two blissfully unaware of their surroundings, the rest of the group were pale of face, thin of lip, and taut of muscle. Injured or not, they’d go down fighting before letting the Black Númenóreans corral them again. So each Novice had informed Berenor as they’d prepared to head out. So Berenor agreed. 

Had Berenor done the right thing? 

Berenor had insisted anyone hale go with his father and Saldís to join the battle at the Black Gates. He was neither blind nor stupid. He knew the stakes. If Middle Earth was to be saved, that battle had to be won. Every fighter would count. No able-bodied warrior could be spared to babysit the wounded.

Berenor had argued the point, and the injured Novices, every last one of them, had agreed. They’d stood behind him with arms folded and chins lifted with dwarf-like stubbornness as they’d pressed their case. In the end, they’d won. 

A wave of pained sickness washed over him. He could do this. He _would_ do this. For the kids. For those even now rushing to join the battle before the Black Gates. For his king, if Aragorn yet lived.

In total, fourteen _emala_ carried the team down Durthang Road towards the Plateau of Gorgoroth, and their pace was nothing short of break-neck. From there, the party would race for the Pass of Cirith Ungol in a desperate attempt to reach and cross it—unseen—before Mordor’s armies finished with Gondor’s army. Their destination: Osgiliath. _If_ they could reach it. 

The ride to Cirith Ungol would take hours, three or four at least, and that was assuming the Eye did not stumble upon them, or orcs cross their path. Thus far, the Eye seemed focused upon the battle raging before the Black Gates, but Berenor never forgot that the enemy believed there was a “missing dwarf army” to content with. If the Eye turned south… If any orcs lingered within Mordor’s bounds…

Images of the torture he’d experienced replayed through his mind. _Stop it,_ he snarled at himself as he felt a whimper build in his throat. By the Valar, he had to hold himself together. He _would_ hold himself together. He was a Ranger, a son of Thannor, and he would not fail this day.

From his right, Cat tossed him a short, measuring look. The sole exception to the wounded-only pact the group had made, Yahzin had flat-out refused to be separated from Berenor’s side. It had shocked their father. Berenor, too, if he was truthful. 

It also made him all the more determined to see his group to safety. Her intent, perhaps? 

Berenor shifted in his saddle, unable to bear the weight of Finnin’s skull on that spot of his chest any longer. A shaft of agony speared through him to move so, and Berenor swallowed back a moan. He glanced over one shoulder. 

Behind him, sixteen more Novices rode with grim silence, many as in pain as himself. Thyndo’s _emala_ galloped behind Berenor’s, and the girl with the distinctive birthmark on her face, Lohri, sat before the smaller boy much as Finnin did Berenor. Unlike Finnin, Lohri was able to sit upright…for now. There was no saying how long that would last, for like Finnin, she’d taken a belly wound, though hers was less severe than the dwarf’s.

Behind them? Berenor named each of his seventeen charges—names he’d committed to memory: 

Yahzin, Lohri, Thyndo. 

Harrid, Kivik, Ovandor. 

Nahir, Gavian, Juriha.

Zanner, Ixia, Falma.

Dalthohr. Anissah. Japper.

Leron and Lehk. 

Too many were among the youngest of the Novices with only thirteen years to their lives. If Sauron or orcs discovered them… 

_It was our choice._ These kids were fighters, and those not unconscious would defend themselves if it came to that. 

Berenor hoped it didn’t.

OoOoOo

_  
**Northern Durthang Road, Mordor**  
_

 _Emala_ raced down the northern stretch of the Durthang Road like a raging river, their extended wings permitting the birds to half-glide instead of merely run down the mountain. Truly, the speed they attained was dizzying, and ‘twas all Bifur could do to hold on to his daughter with his left arm, ignore the terrible shooting pains of his right where Nori had lashed Bifur’s spear to it, and mentally gird himself for what was to come. 

War. With wee babes as his brothers and sisters in arms. 

By pony, the ride down the mountain would have taken the better part of an hour. This trip looked as if it would conclude in less than half that, and a more harrowing experience traveling downhill, Bifur had never imagined.

War. With _children._

Nay, Bifur didn’t doubt the Novices were deadly—he’d seen Caeldor’s finished product in his daughter, now, hadn’t he?—and Bifur trusted that Thannor would not be permitting this if the Novices were destined to be cut down like rabbits in a field of hungry wolves. Aye, the young ones must have skill indeed. 

Too, the armor his Saldís had commanded them all to don, armor stripped from Durthang, offered some protection. Unless one looked closely, a soul would think a squad of orcs rushed to join the battle, a notion that might…mayhap…make all the difference so long as none of them ran afoul of a man or dwarf mistaking Novices and the Black Company for enemies. 

_But they’re children, they are._ They should be protected and loved, not led into battle. 

There was also Saldís to consider. By the seven dwarf fathers, his lass had suffered anguish and grief aplenty. She’d been battered and bruised and _poisoned._ Hying off into danger of more of the same? Everything in Bifur was shouting its denial o’ that. 

_‘Tis necessary._ So said logic, and aye, he knew it was true, but that didn’t mean Bifur had to like it. His sole comfort was in knowing that this time, he and her uncles would be there to protect her. _Protect both of them,_ Bifur corrected, his gaze locating Ciryan where the lad rode with Bofur. To Bifur’s mind, that lad was now family, and no dwarf relinquished such bonds lightly. 

Bifur’s eyes found Bofur’s and read a matching determination there. Their family would fight together, and if there was any mercy left in the world, they’d survive what came next. 

And mayhap, just mayhap, Bifur would finally get his chance at Kimilzor.

OoOoOo

_  
**Slag Hills, Mordor**  
_

Finnur was tempted to tear his hair out. The blasted contraption _did not work._ Why? Why, why, why, curse it? He growled as he set the thing down on the ground and began the painstaking process of disassembling the pressure chamber and nozzle. 

_I missed a step._ ‘Twas obvious. 

Durin’s beard! He blamed it all on the pesky inner voice that wouldn’t leave him be. Like a fly buzzing around his head, it chanted nonstop to hurry, hurry, _hurry._

His brother and Saldís were stuck in Mordor. Aye, and the wee ones, too! Finnur refused— _refused_ —to consider that the worst had already happened. They were not dead. They weren’t. The sooner the enemy was defeated, the sooner Finnur could charge into Mordor and find them. Alive. 

Instead, his rush had ruined everything. Finnur’s fingers tore at screws, and his teeth gnashed together until ‘twas a wonder he retained more than stubs. 

Finnur would get this right. He would.

OoOoOo

_  
**Udûn, Mordor**  
_

Novices, Rangers, and one exhausted commander left their _emala_ cached away at the base of Durthang Road, safely hidden by a short spur extending from the Mountains of Shadow like a crooked finger. The moment they stepped off the ancient road, they would be in Udûn within sight of the Black Gates. 

The distant, hollow sounds of combat that had hounded Saldís and her team escalated into a roar loud enough to rattle the ears. The thrum of war, it was, and it fired her blood and set Saldís’s heart to pounding until the headache she’d nursed since before departing Durthang acquired miniature chisels with which to tear through her brain. 

She ignored it. She’d fought with worse. _Not by much,_ a part of her pointed out. One handed, poisoned and wracked with shivers? That inner voice spoke true. 

So. A challenge. She’d never backed away from a challenge. 

Saldís adjusted the face scarf she wore beneath her orc helmet to better filter the acrid sting of Mordor’s air and protect her lungs from the anticipated influx of smoke and dust. Her eyes scrutinized the valley swiftly, carefully. 

Pear-shaped Udûn put Saldís to mind of a demon’s mouth. The Ash Mountains forming its eastern boundary resembled incisors while the sharp planes of the Mountains of Shadow forming its western bank looked like jagged pieces of glass from this angle. Udûn’s floor completed the impression, for surely it was naught but a black tongue comprised of a writhing mass of orc bodies.

_Thousands more,_ she whispered privately. There must be at least another two thousand fighters pressing forward to pass the Black Gates, numbers that the Gondorians and Blacklocks could not counter. Her lips flattened. Her team would need to do something about these additional forces. 

Adâd’s arm brushed hers. Saldís’s attention turned northward where Udûn bottlenecked at the Black Gates. ‘Twas not far now, her group’s destination, but the huge force of orcs, wargs, and trolls attempting to pass the gates en mass would delay them…and add risk to their journey. 

“Mahal,” she heard Bofur mutter from beyond Adâd to her left. 

Adâd said naught at all. His visage, what little she could see beneath his misshapen helm, was pinched and hard. 

“Let us hope this works,” Thannor murmured from behind Saldís, his voice faintly tinny within his orc-wrought headgear. 

“It must,” she replied and felt her cousin touch her shoulder in support. Saldís faced her team, cognizant when Ciryan claimed the spot on her opposite side with a short glare Nori’s way. 

_Help us,_ she prayed to Eru and Aulë. She’d no faith in the other Valar, not yet, but Mahal had made Bifur. He’d created Bofur and Nori and Dori, and Eru had breathed life into them. To those two alone, she dared to extend a degree of trust. _Let this work._ The weight of Bjartur’s pendant suddenly rose in her awareness, and her cousin’s face danced before her mind’s eye. _This must work._

“Remember,” she instructed her Novices, “our goal is to do as much damage as we can without being discovered. We must disperse through Sauron’s army like a silent plague. Stay in pairs or trios. Guard one another, and strike only when you can safely do so. We must try to thin these orcs…” Her head bobbed towards Udun’s valley floor. “…before they can join the battle, but we cannot afford to be seen. Above all, we must reach the Black Númenóreans, find their Arcanists, and kill them.”

“Do not attempt to move among the Black Númenóreans, those of you who must remain disguised as orcs,” Thannor warned. “It is too likely your kinsmen will see through your masquerade. We can count on the orcs to be blinded by their bloodlust and stupidity. Not so your kin.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” one Novice muttered.

Tahal, his helmet tucked under one arm, took a step forward and tossed over his shoulder, “Ranged attacks only on our—” The teen halted, his lips twisting, and then corrected himself. “On _the Black Númenóreans_ when we reach striking distance.” 

Saldís nodded her agreement. Unlike herself, Thannor, Erynor, Calenor, and Anuon, the majority of her Novices could not pass for adults. Gylmal could. Tahal, Thea, and a handful of others, too, but Saldís was loath to ask more of them. Aye, they could do more damage if they slipped among Caeldor’s people, but any who attempted it were more likely to end up dead.

It wouldn’t stop Saldís from trying it if needs must. Saldís had not said anything about that probable outcome, not yet, but she well knew she and the Rangers might be forced to shed their orc armor for a more direct approach. 

Mayhap it would not come to that. She hoped it didn’t. 

She took a deep breath. To her Novices she directed, “I am proud of you. More proud than mere words can convey. You have trained all your lives for this. You are ready. I could search the world over and never find better comrades. It will be an honor to face the enemy by your side.” 

Chins lifted. Shoulders drew back. 

“Be smart,” Saldís told them. “Be quiet. It’s an assassin’s work we do this day. We strike, and we vanish.” Her teeth flashed in a feral grin. “Over and over again.” She saluted them, and emotions choked her as they returned the gesture. “Let’s make Mordor and Caeldor’s remaining Lords pay.”

Her Novices drew their swords, thrust them into the air…and roared their approval. Saldís lifted her own blade. “For justice,” she shouted. 

“Justice!” they echoed. 

“Justice!” she cried.

_“Justice!”_ they roared back.

“You’re mad. You do know that?” Bofur huffed loudly enough for Saldís to hear him. 

Saldís winked, ignoring the feverish shivers wracking her spine. By Mahal, if she was to die this day by poison or sword, she would do so standing tall and spitting death in the face. “This day, that may not be such a bad thing. Do try to keep up, Uncle.”

“Keep…?” Bofur sputtered. Nori snickered. Adâd chuffed in reluctant amusement.

Saldís raised her left arm, scimitar pointed heavenward. Dropping it to point forward, she led the charge into Udûn.

OoOoOo

Five adults of the race of men, forty-eight teens, and four dwarves sprinted across Udûn towards the enemy’s rear lines well behind the Black Gates. As had been planned, the instant enemy heads craned around, noticing their arrival, Nori deepened his voice and hollered, “Move, lazy Maggots! The war will be over before you sluggards arrive.”

It appeased any curiosity. When Saldís’s team reached the mob, not an orc spared them a second glance.

OoOoOo

Gylmal exchanged a short look with Tahal when the last of their teammates were in position along the rear of the orcs. Then, they turned in unison towards their commander.

As Gylmal waited, his nerves sizzling, each beat of his own heart pounded loud in his ears. _Ba-bump._ Goosebumps broke out upon his skin. The orcs would sniff him out as an impostor, fear clamored. Run, it cried. _Ba-bump._

But they didn’t. 

At long last, Ib-Saldís nodded. The anxiety of waiting vanished. Exhilaration took its place. Gylmal pushed forward between two orcs and deftly dodged one’s fist when it tried to object. His journey through a league of orcs had begun. 

To Gylmal’s right, Hennah weaved between orcs as deftly as he, sometimes visible, other times disappearing behind bigger orc bodies. Slender, red-haired Ahnik traveled to Gylmal’s left. Tahal, Gylmal lost sight of, as well as the commander and most of the team. 

Ahnik and Hennah were his partners, and it was they Gylmal kept close track of. When Ahnik abruptly reached out as if patting an orc, Gylmal smiled. The orc fell convulsing to the ground, but Ahnik was well away before the orc’s uncaring allies noticed its difficulty. The orcs hurled insults at Ahnik’s victim and kicked it before marching right over it. 

Gylmal readied his own dart, knowing a brilliant idea when he saw it. Soon, Hennah too joined the fun. 

In twos and threes, orcs died never knowing what had killed them.


	66. Persisting Darkness

_**The Morannon** _

Dust kicked up by Arcanist spells mingled with the sweat dripping down Aragorn’s face, leaving the taste of mud and death on his lips. He ducked the stroke of a massive broadsword and slammed Andúril through a chink in the orc’s armor, a hands-breadth beneath the armpit. The orc bellowed as it died, and Aragorn freed his blade with a yank.

The king paused, heart thundering in his chest, to survey the chaos swirling around him. Between the Arcanists’ sorcery and the Blacklocks’ charge, the defensive posture that had protected the Host from outright slaughter had disintegrated. Solid formations fractured, leaving gaps the enemy was only too happy to take advantage of. Men panicked, especially those bearing Lebennin’s standard—Lebennin, whose men were left to hold the western flank that the dwarves had abandoned. Aragorn counted five breaches significant enough that orcs soon ran roughshod through Lebennin’s battalion, further shredding those men’s lines. 

A muscle in Aragorn’s jaw twitched. Should he assume direct command of those men, he’d drag Sauron’s Eye to them. No. He must delegate, keep the Eye fix firmly upon Aragorn’s group with its more experienced fighters. 

An orc lunged at Aragorn, doubtless noting his distraction. Ziphora materialized, barring it from him. The girl’s scimitar opened the orc’s belly beneath its chest piece. A second slash removed the orc’s head, and another corpse joined those already littering the ground at their feet. Ziphora’s dark eyes met Aragorn’s for a split second, a wordless message: _I have your back. Do as you must._

Aragorn’s head dipped, then hers. She assumed a defensive posture, scimitar in her right hand and a shorter dirk in her left, her gaze outward. As two more orcs charged, she met them calmly, forcefully. 

A spark of distant and grim amazement ignited within Aragorn. From being determined to protect the Novices, he now trusted in their skills, and in that he was not alone. His Rangers no longer hovered over the teens quite so zealously. Like their king, they now depended upon them as they would any fellow Ranger.

“Dagoras,” Aragorn hollered as he returned his attention to Lebennin’s immediate crisis. An orc stole up on his opposite side, and Aragorn’s blade sliced low, severing an orc’s leg at the joint. Sivva finished the creature. When Dagoras’s head turned in Aragorn’s direction for a brief second, Aragorn continued, “Take charge of Lebennin. Radanir, help him. They must hold.”

The two Rangers finished the foes before them—one an orc, the other a warg with its rider—and disappeared among the Swan Knights separating them from Lebennin’s weakening lines. 

“Imrahil,” Aragorn called, only to be interrupted by Gimli’s, “Aragorn!” 

At his friend’s summons, Aragorn spared a harried glance in the dwarf’s direction before booting an orc to his left, collapsing its knee before it could stab Golodir. He next jammed Andúril through the mouth opening of another foe’s helmet. The blade pierced the creature’s skull, halting only when Aragorn’s blade connected with the back of the helm. 

Aragorn jerked his sword free. “Gimli?”

“We’re wasted here,” Gimli grumbled at the same volume. “Legolas can sense the sorcerers. We’re going hunting.”

Aragorn bobbed his head. Eru knew the Host would not survive long once the Arcanists finished with the dwarves and unleashed on the rest of them. Already, the mass of Blacklocks looked vastly diminished, and a bottomless regret twisted his insides each time he noted it. Legolas and Gimli were right. Those sorcerers had to be dealt with. 

A thought surfaced: the Dunedain could sense Sauron’s Arcanists, too. A decision. A choice. “Amlan! Calenglad and Corunir! Go with them.” 

Corunir saluted with his blade. Calenglad’s bald head dipped in a short nod. In seconds, the three Dunedain coalesce around Legolas the Gimli, and the five rushed headlong towards the Black Gates. Gimli’s ax smashed through enemies, clearing a path with the help of Legolas and his bow. The Rangers followed behind and soon the five were swallowed up within the orc army. 

_Eru grant you victory, my friends._

Aragorn slew a warg sneaking up behind Ziphora—Golodir was trapped between two orcs and unable to extricate himself—and hardened his resolve. He did not permit worry for his people and friends to gain a foothold. He did not permit himself to think about the dead arrayed all around him. The Host had to hold. 

_Just a little longer,_ he told himself. Frodo and Sam would succeed. He clung to that belief. 

_Go, Frodo._ The enemy’s Eye was fixed upon the Host. If they yet lived, two hobbits had been handed the best chance at success that men’s blood could purchase them. _Hurry._

OoOoOo

Saldís shivered in earnest as she dragged her misbegotten, orc-crafted blade across the hamstring of a muscular orc. The slice was quick, deep, and over before the orc knew himself under attack. The creature fell, mouth opening to bellow, but Adâd’s spear punctured his throat. The orc’s body pitched forward. It stayed down.

Father and daughter pressed forward with a short glance shared between them. Another successful kill. Another step closer to their destination within the ever-jostling crush of bodies crammed within Udûn’s neck. By Durin, she’d never been so thankful for shoddy orc armor. Though the creatures’ legs were protected at thigh and shin by plates from the front, the back was left exposed with only leather ties holding the ensemble in place. 

_Overconfidence will spell your doom,_ she told Sauron silently with bared teeth. ‘Twas details like this, overlooking such blatant weaknesses, that would see the Dark Lord defeated one day. Aye, Sauron doubtless believed he had ample legions of orcs to make up for such neglect—what did he care if thousands of orcs died? Mayhap he was right, but a part of her took heart nonetheless. Sauron might be powerful beyond reckoning, but he was a rubbish leader. 

Through the shudders wracking her frame nonstop—a fact she concealed from both nadad and adâd’s too perceptive eyes—a smile of dark victory lifted her lips. Her joints ached as if she’d aged a century, and the knuckles of her left hand felt locked in place around her stolen orc sword, neither good signs, but by Mahal, she and her Novices’ presences would be felt this day. Theirs mayhap more than hers, she granted, given the useless right arm she had tucked away beneath her breastplate and the way her cumbersome orcish boots prevented her from using her feet to full effect, but she yet rejoiced in a sense of comeuppance. This day, just desserts were being served in spades. 

To her right, Ciryan did the damage Saldís wished herself capable of. Where her limitations relegated her to single kills with her sword—she’d not risk sheathing the weapon in search of another when in the midst of an army of orcs—her nadad did what a Weapon did best: ravaged the enemy. His blowpipe darted foes distant from them with swift poisons while his hand pricked those closer with poisons that would take longer to act. Those orcs, too, would die, but they’d die after Saldís’s family and Novices were long gone, likely when the orcs were in the thick of battle. 

Her vengeful smile grew. Sauron was not going to be happy when large sections of his army inexplicably died. Ciryan would not be the only Novice utilizing poisons this day. Packed into Udûn’s throat as the orcs were with more than forty Novices, odds favored the Novices. Doubtful, indeed, that many of these orcs would emerge from Udûn untouched. 

An orc attempted to shove between brother and sister. Saldís’s sword jabbed sideways, spearing into its torso even as Ciryan’s dagger opened the orc’s throat. In unison, they thrust the orc forward so that its body fell beneath their feet. Ciryan reclaimed his place guarding Saldís’s weaker side, and both waited tense seconds to see if their act drew any notice. 

No outcry sounded. ‘Twas unbelievable. _Orcs,_ she spat disgustedly. 

She supposed she should not be so surprised. Orcs had never been known for their deep sense of fraternity. Add to that the chaotic crush of bodies and ‘twas no wonder none cared when an orc or two cleared out of the way. They just trampled the corpses underfoot. 

By her count, Saldís, Ciryan, and Adâd had slain two score orcs since beginning their trek through Udûn’s throat, the kills spaced out to avoid drawing notice. If one counted the walking dead, those poisoned yet upright, their tally was higher. By her estimates, that meant her Novices must have accounted for hundreds of orcs by now, with more trudging forward while carrying death within their veins. 

_Progress,_ she told herself. Nay, ‘twas not equal to the army of reinforcements Gondor needed, but by Mahal, this had to help. 

So matters continued with Saldís, Bifur, and Ciryan working together as a unit. Orcs died or were poisoned, and the Black Gates loomed larger with each shuffle of heavy orc boots. Soon, the three were close enough to distinguish features of the trolls and orcs manning the gates from high overhead. Another handful of kills, and they moved between the ponderous black doors. 

The orcs took up a roaring chant as the battle raging outside came into view. They rapped their armor with fists in a deafening percussion the caused the air to tremble. Ciryan mouthed words Saldís failed to catch. By Durin, she wished the foul creatures would shut up. Her head complained all the more painfully for the uproar. 

A handful of orcs trampled down their fellows in their rush to join the carnage outside. Like a cork bursting from its bottle, Saldís, Bifur and Ciryan were through Mordor’s gates. The pressure of too many bodies eased as orcs took off running towards their enemies. Between the running mass of orcs, a much obscured battlefield came into view. 

Any sense of accomplishment she’d harbored evaporated. The damage she and her Novices had wrought? ‘Twas not enough. Not nearly. What she beheld was a slaughter, and her steps slowed as the sheer scope of it hit her. How had the men and dwarves lasted this long? 

“Mahal,” Adâd muttered by her side. 

_Aye._ Saldís chewed on her inner cheek until her eyes found and homed in upon the Black Númenórean lines. _We knew this was likely a losing fight ere we left Durthing,_ she reminded herself. Naught had changed. So. Her team would do as much damage as they could before either death claimed them or victory was somehow snatched from the jaws of defeat. 

‘Twould likely be the former. “So be it,” she whispered. Death, she didn’t fear. It was but one route to deliverance out from Kimilzor’s hands. (By Durin, she wanted him dead.) Louder, she said, “Let’s go,” and broke into a jog with her sword at the ready. 

How long, she wondered grimly, would it take for the vaunted Black Númenóreans to realize they had more to worry about than simply dwarves? Her lips curled in a wolfish grin.

OoOoOo

Hethin was dead. Too many Blacklocks were, and each loss pierced the young king like the sharpest of arrows.

Dís knew. She detected every jerk in the body fighting back to back with her as Vestin staggered under each blow. The dwarf would never look at the world the same again. His people would be forever altered, for living in the safety of the Orocarni, far apart from the world of men, elves, and dark Powers, the Blacklocks had never before known such grief as this. 

_Mahal have mercy._ This was her doing, and her heart wept at the sorrow she’d brought upon the sons of Gorim. She did not regret her actions—Middle Earth could not survive without the Blacklocks’ assistance—but she mourned and raged at the necessity. 

Dís’s _gorrah_ remained among the living, and Vestin’s too somehow. With the deadly Black Númenóreans cutting down Dís’s allies, both those on two legs and four, the number of surviving _gorrah_ and Blacklocks diminished by the minute. Dís spied too many still bodies within her periphery. 

_Not alone,_ she thought savagely. By Durin, there were black-clad Weapon and Arcanist bodies mixed with her people’s. The Khazâd did not die alone. 

How long had the dwarves held? Had it been minutes? Hours? She didn’t know, but the time the Blacklocks had purchased the Host and Frodo had come at a steep cost. There had been too many sprays of blood as blades ripped apart bodies, flashes of fire that scorched dwarves and earth alike, orbs of water that drowned a soul or turned the dirt beneath one’s feet to slippery mud, and mounds of earth that attempted to swallow people whole. This, she imagined, was the Battle of Five Armies turned exponentially worse.

She spared a thought to wonder what Thorin would think. By Mahal, she wished he was there. Dwalin, too, with Grasper and Keeper held in his meaty fists. 

_At least we have Alatar._ Dís had seen neither hide nor hair of the senior Blue Wizard, but proof of his presence was easily found. His boomerang harried Black Númenóreans, its bent shape more oft than not in flight towards an enemy. More than one Arcanist had attempted to incinerate the odd weapon, but their fires touched it not, a fact that frustrated them to no end, she was sure. 

Dís had also seen Weapons felled by an invisible sword, or conked unconscious by a sound rap on the head by an unseen object. Twice, whole swaths of black-clad Númenóreans had been knocked from their feet by a hidden but powerful percussion. 

The Mouth, when Dís caught sight of him, foamed in rage as he tried to hunt down the interloper responsible. Whether it was Alatar’s intent or not, the Wizard kept the creature occupied, saving the rest of them from the worst of its attentions, though it did not spare them from becoming collateral damage. Time and again, the Mouth threw columns of fire into the dwarves’ midst in an effort to pin down the wily Wizard. 

“Durin’s beard,” she growled as another fat worm of fire flashed by in the periphery. Dís was tempted to hurl a dagger after the Mouth herself. Nay, it wouldn’t reach the creature—she knew that from others’ attempts—but by Mahal, enough was enough.

‘Twas then, as Dís exchanged lightning blows with a particularly agile Weapon, that a blue tint abruptly colored Dís’s vision. The air rushed from her lungs, ripped away by a malevolent, incorporeal hand. So jarring was the sensation that her foe’s scimitar came within inches of cleaving Dís’s scalp from her head. 

A cold knot formed in Dís’s belly even as she ducked out of the scimitar’s reach. An Arcanist had set his sights on her. 

Dís fought back the instinctive terror blooming in her breast. She could not so much as gasp—there was no air to permit her lungs to expand—but neither could she halt. Dís danced away from the Weapon’s next assault, Vestin keeping with her, and cut down a Númenórean to her left while evading her foe’s next slashing strike. 

Dís’s act of dispatching the other, otherwise occupied foe infuriated Dís’s assailant. Dís parried the woman’s next three serpent-like blows, then twisted so that the woman’s scimitar clanged safely against her breastplate instead of gouging deeply between it and her shoulder guard. _Too close,_ the dam labeled it.

Vestin stumbled, bumping into her. Dís kicked back with one leg, blindly, instinctively, hoping to drive his assailant into a minute retreat. The king recovered— _thank Mahal_ —and both fought on. 

With her world colored blue, everything felt disturbingly surreal. Dís searched in vain for indication of her other attacker’s identity while continuing to fend off the lithe Weapon’s wicked attacks. (How did the infernal woman _move_ that way?) Dís could not breathe, curse it, and despite her fierce determination, the princess’s reflexes began to slow. 

A rough jostle from behind threatened to unbalance the dwarrowdam, and the icy lump in Dís’s gut expanded. That was the second time Vestin had faltered. A hasty glance revealed veins in his temples stood out stark against his skin, and his eyes were wide and unfocused. The big black ax he wielded, Gorim’s ax, dipped towards the ground. 

Had the spell snared Vestin as well? _It must have,_ she realized. Dís’s frustration climbed in tandem with her blurring eyesight. Air. Her need to breathe grew critical. 

Where, curse it? Where was the Arcanist that attacked them? Dwarves and Black Númenóreans fought all around, but she saw none focused on herself or Vestin.

Dís’s legs gave way, dumping her onto her knees. No. _No._ Death-Bringer grew heavier and heavier in her grip. She fumbled a parry. She batted the enemy scimitar aside, but she lacked the strength to follow up with her own counter. 

Was this it, then? Was this how Princess Dís of the line of Durin would meet her end? On her knees? 

No. She’d not have it. She struggled to stand, furious, but her limbs refused to her commands. _Vili._ The feeling of inevitability draped over her shoulders like a cloak. Her mate’s beloved face appeared in her mind. 

The killing blow Dís anticipated…didn’t come. Instead, Dís heard the Weapon looming over her giggle. _Giggle._

Outrage loaned Dís a short burst of strength. Her right hand found the hilt of her dagger, and the blade went flying. Against all odds, her aim proved true. The giggles stopped as the dagger _thunked_ into its target. The Weapon fell to the ground. 

Dead? Dís couldn’t tell. Though she blinked, her vision continued to deteriorate. Her lungs screamed for air, burning with need. 

A shout, hollow and dull, reached her ears. Dis blinked to find herself on her rump. Death-Bringer fell from her left hand, and she stared as if hypnotized as a stocky figure in black stepped closer. He halted when his boots appeared inches from Dís’s hip. 

A blurry scimitar sliced downward, its arc absurdly slow. At least, she thought distantly, she’d not die at the hands of the one who’d laughed. An eternity passed, and the blade inched its way towards Dís’s exposed neck. She had no regrets. She’d slain many of Sauron’s foul acolytes. She only hoped her sons and brothers were proud.

But then the scimitar jerked. Its trajectory skewed, and it slammed into her shoulder guard hard enough to bruise bone. Dís’s foe collapsed. The Weapon, a blurry and pale man with wisps of golden hair escaping his head covering, was dead. 

Inexplicably. 

Miraculously. 

A second later, the air returned to Dís in a rush. She swallowed lungs-full of air, shocked to find herself yet among the living. By her side, Vestin wheezed, his eyes wide. 

Had Alatar…?

But no. As her sight cleared, Dís noticed two darts sticking from the man’s neck. Her skin flushed with the heat of rising exaltation. This was not Alatar’s work. 

The dam scrambled for Death-Bringer, aware when her _gorrah’s_ tail catapulted another would-be attacker from her. (By Mahal, the animal would receive every bit of pampering Dís could provide if they survived this day.) Dís clambered to her feet.

Darts. The man had been slain by poisoned darts. 

_A blowpipe,_ a distant part of her brain offered. No dwarf used them, nor Ranger according to long ago talks with Barhador. 

The Blacklocks had an ally, one trained as a Black Númenórean. Was it who she thought? 

A slow, wicked grin curved Dís’s lips. As she and Vestin returned to the fray with new zeal, the sense of inevitability that had dogged Dís’s steps vanished. The Blacklocks had an ally, and the Black Númenóreans had no idea that another player had entered the field. 

“’Ware,” she shouted in Khuzdul. “The Black Company and Novices have arrived.”

The surviving Blacklocks took up a thunderous cheer.

OoOoOo

Thannor’s eyebrows winged upwards as the sound of rowdy cheering reached his ears. His eyes sought his brother-by-marriage’s and found them incredulous. Whatever had brought this about, neither Ranger had any clue as to its cause.

Thannor slowed his steps, cognizant when orcs parted and flowed around him in a steady stream. Anuon halted by his side. Thannor lifted his chin in silent question. Did they shuck their orc garb and enter the battle as Númenóreans or remain as they were? 

Anuon’s head canted to one side. After a brief hesitation, he shook his head. _Stay._

Thannor acquiesced with a nod, in full agreement. There was no sense entering the Black Númenóreans’ midst until they must. Reaching down, he slipped the last of the throwing knives he’d filched from Durthang from his boots. Six, he counted. Only six remained. 

Setting aside frustration—daggers and arrows both would be spent too swiftly—he studied the ranks of Black Númenóreans bent upon destroying the surviving dark-skinned dwarves facing them. Whatever the source of their cheers, the dwarves now fought in grim silence. _But not alone. Not any longer._

A glance, and both Rangers nodded. So be it. They’d make each dagger, each arrow count. Both projectiles would attract notice…probably…but less than if the two Rangers drew their swords and charged in openly. 

Thannor subtly gestured to Anuon. They two would take turns using one another’s bodies to shield their actions from the throngs of enemies rushing up from behind. The longer they could remain undetected, the better. 

Anuon went first. With Thannor’s bulk behind him, the archer took careful aim. The bow whistled lowly. Its arrow sliced through air and pierced the throat of an Arcanist lifting fistfuls of fire. The Rangers swapped positions as the man’s hands gripped his throat and his knees collapsed. His fires mushroomed into the sky and dissipated.

As Anuon nocked his next arrow, Thannor chose his first target. _For you, Father._

OoOoOo

Pain blasted through Saldís’s body. The excruciating onslaught was so abrupt and intense that spots instantly clouded her vision. Her spine snapped ramrod straight and every muscle in her body seized, robbing her of the ability to breathe and trapping a scream within her throat. All of it— _all_ —emanated from her right foot with such throbbing agony that nothing in her experience compared.

When she attempted to glance down, muscles locked into position protested, creaking as if they’d been frozen solid. An act that should have been rote, effortless, became a feat of epic proportions. As battle raged all around her (Mahal, she was helpless!), slowly…slowly…with her skin crawling in anticipation of a lethal blow she’d not see coming, her boot swam into view. 

She’d half expected to discover her foot encased in molten fire, to see boot, skin, and muscle devoured leaving only bone and raw, shrieking nerves behind. Instead, nothing appeared amiss. Nothing, that is, but the barest brush of sickly yellow light dancing across the top of her boot, light from the outermost edges of the Eye’s gaze. 

_Urkhas kûd._ A cold chill shuddered its way from her nape to her ankles. ‘Twas the Eye’s light that did this, and it had not even kissed bare skin. 

Disbelief gonged, and horror. Saldís wrenched backwards, tripping over her own feet. The instant she was clear, the pain diminished but left her drastically weakened. Her legs wobbled like a babe’s attempting its first toddle, and Saldís gulped for air, reeling with shock. 

_Mahal._ There had been no warning. One second, she’d been focused upon covering for Ciryan as her nadad sneaked closer to take aim at the Weapon threatening Lady Dís. The next, she’d been consumed by a fiery torment beyond reckoning. 

The poison. ‘Twas the only conclusion she could draw, for no other combatant seemed to pay the Eye’s gaze any mind. 

Saldís stumbled farther from the terrible pool of light, flinching from the possibility of a second accidental encounter. Distantly, she noted Ciryan and Bifur followed, both with heads cocked in questioning, confused angles. Her limbs quaked so violently that it was all she could do to hide just how devastating that short contact had been. Nausea sat like a sick lump in her esophagus, and she swallowed desperately. She could afford to be ill _here_ —’twas a bloody battleground!

Then came fury. She and her two loved ones had fought their way into range of the Black Númenóreans, and then this! The Eye was fixed upon his Black Númenórean army, scouring it in search of something. _(Pallando, mayhap?)_ How was she to thin Númenórean numbers if she _couldn’t even approach?_ So long as the Eye remained upon them, she could not take one step into their midst.

Not. One.

She couldn’t fight them. After all her scheming, all her efforts, she couldn’t fight them. Curse it, she wanted Kimilzor!

‘Twas a blow she’d not expected, this, and she raged that in the most important battle of her life, she was _useless._ Oh aye, she could continue her silent slaughter of orcs— _Orcs,_ a part of her spat, incensed to be relegated to such inferior foes when her former people wreaked bloody havoc on her allies—but she wanted to hunt _them:_ Kimilzor and the remaining Lords. 

“What?” Ciryan questioned sharply. 

Adâd abruptly took off. He charged a handful of paces to clobber an orc off its feet and then impaled the creature’s head with his spear. 

In plain sight. 

Where all and sundry could see him. 

An orc shoved past, slamming into her right shoulder as he did and sending a shaft of pain through her poisoned wound. For that alone, she’d have killed him, but when he headed right for her adâd, Saldís exploded in fury. She leaped after it. 

Her boots slammed into its back, driving the orc to the ground with Saldís affixed to its back the entire way. A downward thrust of her sword severed its spine. _Nothing_ touched her adâd. Nothing. 

But the rage whipping Saldís was not so easily appeased. By Durin, she couldn’t believe this was happening. Denied the ability to hunt her former people? She kicked the dead orc’s body. 

“Saldís?” Ciryan demanded. With one hand, he stopped her from turning away. 

“The Eye,” she bit out, unable to make eye contact. 

Her brother went very, very still. “Do you mean—”

She never did find out what he meant to say. It was then that a troll interrupted them.

OoOoOo

An assassin’s work, Bifur’s daughter had called this, and an assassins work, it proved to be. Grueling, exacting work, it was, that left a body covered in blood and sweat. Bifur thought wistfully of the Battle of Five Armies, for there a dwarf need only stand shoulder to shoulder with his kin and cut down enemies. The lines of battle had been clearly drawn, enemies obvious.

This fiasco required a dwarf pay close attention. One hasty strike was as liable to end an ally as an enemy what with Rangers and Novices dressed in orc attire. Bifur didn’t know about Ciryan or Saldís, but his soul shuddered to imagine what a mistake could cost. He held back more’n he ought, he supposed, but he’d not have the blood of one of Saldís’s Novices on his hands. 

He grunted his approval when Ciryan’s dart hit the cur meaning to strike down Princess Dís. _Good lad._ The boy was skilled, and that was no exaggeration. 

Bifur intended to say as much when Saldís inexplicably retreated, her steps at first wooden, then wobbly. Beneath her orcish helmet, her face appeared white. Concern sharpened his gaze and wrinkled his brow. What…?

Movement from the corner of one eye demanded Bifur’s attention. He left his daughter to Ciryan, reluctantly, but when he spied an archer lifting its ponderous bow, arrow nocked and ready, all thoughts of his daughter’s momentary out-of-character behavior fled. 

Like Bifur and his children, the archer stood an island of stillness in a sea of frothing combatants. Bifur had only a split second to follow the arrow’s intended trajectory. When he did, he charged across the short distance between himself and the orc. The creature’s target was Gimli, Gloin’s son. 

_Nay._ Gimli powered through orcs a good fifty yards away, cutting them down with abandon as if they were toys. Behind him, an elf and three men followed, killing any orcs Gimli missed. Gimli had not yet noticed the orc preparing to slay him, but that was alright. His adâd’s friend was here, and by Mahal, Bifur wouldn’t be failing his kindred this day. 

He spared not one thought for secrecy. Nay, he slammed into the orc openly. 

The creature stumbled, retaining its balance by the skin of its teeth. Another orc noticed the altercation as it jogged by and slowed. Bifur rammed both elbows into the teetering archer, ending that battle. The archer crashed to its knees with an outraged squawk. The other orc bellowed and charged. 

Bifur thrust his spear through the archer’s skull, but ‘twas an arrow that felled the other. An elvish arrow. For one beat of his heart, Bifur’s gaze clashed with the elf’s—Prince Legolas, he identified with disbelief, and from the elf’s widening eyes, Legolas was as shocked as Bifur. _Likely from the orc armor._ Dori had mentioned Thranduil’s son had been caught up in events, but hearing and seeing were two different things. Bifur never thought he’d find himself fighting alongside the elf prince again.

Legolas’s bow swiveled until it pointed right at Bifur…or so Bifur thought until he abruptly registered a ground-shaking racket swiftly closing in upon his location. Bifur whipped around. 

There was no missing the troll plowing through the horde of orcs towards him, and at first, Bifur feared he was the target. Had the troll witnessed…? 

An arrow slammed home in the troll’s neck, but it roared and ran faster. Bifur’s eyes rounded. 

With shoulders, chest, and arms roped with bulging muscles, the creature was easily the most massive specimen of its kind Bifur had ever seen. In hindsight, ‘twas embarrassing that Bifur and the rest of Thorin’s company had fallen victim to Tom, Bert, and William. If those three had been of this one’s ilk, the Company would have been jelly for sure. This troll could flatten a half dozen dwarves with one strike. 

The stampeding behemoth ran over allies as if it didn’t see them, its ferocious glower locked upon neither Bifur nor the elf. Nay, its gaze was in the distance. Bifur spared a thought to pity the victim, but then the troll lifted its equally colossal cudgel and clobbered a score of orcs from its path with one gigantic sweep. Bodies flew in all directions.

As Bifur’s daughter was wont to say, _Orc spit._

Bifur barked, “Move!” in Khuzdul. He’d shouted the command frequently enough that Ciryan would have no problem understanding, but just in case, Bifur tackled his daughter and new son to the ground, wincing as his broken hands screamed in complaint. The three landed in a heap to one side of the troll’s path not a second too soon. The troll’s boulder-like feet crashed down where they’d been, and its cudgel arced out in another mighty swing. More orcs were ejected from its path, the poor saps not having cleared out fast enough. 

Two orcs, however, dropped to hands and knees just in time. One crawled past the troll’s right side, but the other—was it daft?—darted between the creature’s legs. 

_“Urkhas_ flaming _kûd!”_ that one spat. Nori. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Bifur’s mind. ‘Twas Nori crawling between the orc’s legs. That mean Dori was the other orc. 

The troll halted and slowly craned around. Bifur’s mouth went try. The creature did not care to have anything so literally underfoot. At all. Beady eyes were swift to locate Nori, then the troll’s fleshy lips twisted in a snarl and one over-sized foot rose into the air. Dori’s strangled cry of fury reached Bifur—Mahal, Dori had to be a split second from attacking—but then a voice lashed out.

“Fool!” a male snarled, his voice unnaturally amplified. The troll abandoned its attempt to flatten Nori and swiveled towards where…

_Kimilzor._ The instant Bifur saw the cur, much of Bifur’s surroundings vanished. He was somewhat aware when Dori and Ciryan dragged Nori clear of imminent harm. He knew, too, when Dori fussed over his brother before checking both Saldís and Ciryan for injuries. Aye, all of that registered even as hatred pulsed like liquid metal through Bifur’s veins. 

“Leave them!” the Mouth continued. Every orc obstructing troll from Mouth vacated the area as if terrified of drawing the Mouth’s notice. A path opened, one Bifur glared down unseen by the foul knave Bifur had dreamed of murdering—slowly—for many a month now. Bifur’s chin dipped, and his temper turned deadlier. 

This was the man who’d taken his daughter. The one who’d ripped her from the safety of Thorin’s Hall. The one who’d abused her, tried to ruin her. Aye, and almost succeeded! 

“You have your orders. Kill the king. Waste time with petty annoyances, and I’ll have your head mounted on a pike. Go!” 

The troll retreated one step—Dori yelped and dragged Ciryan and Nori farther away—before spinning and resuming its inexorable charge towards the Gondorians. _To kill their king,_ Bifur thought. What king? The only heir to the throne was the Dunedain’s chieftain, and from Barhador’s accounts, Aragorn had little— _Nay!_

Bifur’s daughter sprinted after it. 

Of course she did. Always, she rushed in where fools feared to tread. Bifur wasn’t sure if he wanted to throttle her or praise her as he jumped to his feet and chased after. He was five steps behind, then four, then three. He spared a bitter glare towards Kimilzor, cursing that once again the wretch would escape him…

Bifur’s steps slowed. Prince Legolas _flew_ at the Mouth, leaping across a distance no dwarf could match. The elf’s twin swords glinted, spiraling in coordinated strikes that looked likely to slice the Mouth’s neck clean through like scissors. 

The Númenórean rolled off the back of his horse in a hurry. Legolas’s feet touched the saddle the Mouth had just vacated before somersaulting, twisting through the air until the elf landed gracefully in the Mouth’s path. In a half crouch, the prince prowled towards his prey. 

Even across the distance, Bifur saw the Mouth smile. ‘Twas a toothy smile Bifur knew well, and never did it herald good. The Mouth lifted its blade, and the scimitar ignited with wicked-looking blue flames. The Mouth spoke—Bifur saw its lips move and teeth flash—and Legolas stiffened. The elf, to his credit, did not retreat. He rotated his blades and stood his ground. 

Nay. The denial well up, overflowing to spew its message through every fiber of Bifur’s being. If anyone was going to kill Kimilzor, ‘twas Bifur. His was the right—aye, and the duty—and he’d not be robbed of it. Certainly not by an elf. 

Bifur wrestled within himself for one long beat of the heart, cognizant when Saldís disappeared behind walls of orcs. Ciryan raced after her, and Dori pursued them both. Bifur’s gaze darted between where his Saldís had vanished and the elf exchanging blows with the Mouth. 

Bofur’s remembered screams rang in Bifur’s ears, and within his mind, Bifur once again watched helplessly as a foul black mist summoned by sorcery licked across his cousin’s flesh. The horror of not understanding what occurred haunted Bifur afresh. In that moment, he’d been terrified his cousin was being eaten alive. 

A blink, and Saldís once again knelt before the Mouth within Ost Egla. Bifur shouted as the Morgul blade punctured her shoulder. Saldís’s wan face glared up at her adâd, furious and lost. The dagger of knowing his daughter had been poisoned— _poisoned!_ —again stabbed deep into Bifur’s heart. His Gedûl. His wee lioness. 

Another blink, and Bifur writhed against stone while pale hands danced over his bare chest, the fingertips cold as ice but burning like a torch. Bifur’s nostrils swore they detected the smell of scorched flesh even as he screamed until his throat was raw. 

Scores of sickening images, there were, and each returned to him in that moment. No matter how his heart railed at him to protect his daughter, Bifur’s chin slowly descended. His head panned, and his vision turned crimson as he fixated upon his prey. Kimilzor was his. No one was going to cheat him of extracting justice on behalf of his family. He, Saldís’s adâd, was going to _by Mahal_ ensure Kimilzor never hurt his daughter—nay, _anyone’s_ son or daughter—again. 

Kimilzor’s reign of terror was over. 

‘Twas only as he stalked towards the battling elf and Mouth that Bifur realized he wasn’t alone. Nay, Nori paced him. 

“Saldís will have our beards for this,” Nori commented, his voice light but pale eyes harder than Bifur had ever before seen. 

“Aye,” Bifur agreed. “Dori will help her.” His lips curled ever so slightly upward. Aye, he and his _umral_ were bound to get an earful should they survive what happened next. 

“Dori chased after our lass, in case you missed it,” Nori told him. “And I’m almost positive the two orcs that took off after them were Erynor and Calenor .” 

_Good._

Nori’s steely eyes met Bifur’s briefly. “Any last instructions?”

Bifur grunted. Thought. “Don’t die.” His Gêdul needed them. As impossible as the task before them seemed, he and Nori had to survive and return to their lass.

If not, ‘twould be up to Finnin, Dori, and Bofur (where _was_ Bofur?) to pick up the pieces of Saldís’s shattered heart.

OoOoOo

Saldís growled as she sprinted through a seething mass of orcs and men, a tick tugging remorselessly at the skin beneath her right eye. Her head pounded and body throbbed with fever, but she pushed herself harder. She had to stop the troll before it could reach its target.

A flash of movement. She lurched backwards, sucking in her belly as a spear lanced by, only to duck when the back swing of a Swan Knight’s broadsword threatened to lob her head off. By Mahal!

She darted another harried glance at her lumbering target. She’d not gained an inch on the creature. 

A half dozen yards away, she glimpsed Ciryan bring himself to an abrupt halt a scant foot before smacking into the back of a big uruk-hai, one of two barking commands at the orcs around them. Her brother instantly bobbed onto tiptoe and slunk sideways between the two. _Likely holding his breath the entire time,_ she thought, aghast at his audacity. _Curse it, Nadad, what are you thinki—?_

A pike’s haft jabbed backwards and rammed towards her head. Saldís leaped to one side and sprinted forward. When next she checked, Ciryan had vanished from view. 

A cold lump formed in her throat. Her nadadith was tough and smart. There was no reason to fear the worst. He’d gotten separated from her. That was all. 

Her heart little cared for logic, and she snarled her frustration and panic. _Get to the king!_ She pressed forward with an inner howl. 

‘Twas madness, this. Time and again, her path was blocked or obstructed not just by the men and orcs, but by their weapons. Her gaze returned compulsively to where the troll loped onward, his cudgel periodically swinging. At this rate, Aragorn would be long dead ere she reached him. _Faster,_ she chanted to herself. She needed to go fas—

The world brightened. Between one running, dodging step and the next, the landscape adopted a putrid yellow sheen. Saldís’s eyes flared with realization— _Oh, no_ —a split second before jagged, scraping shards of agony ripped through her body once more. Muscles seized and knotted excruciatingly, locking her limbs with but one leg touching ground. 

_Orc. SPIT!_

Inertia did the rest. She crashed into an orc fighting with its back to her.

She barely felt the collision. The pain seared her nerves hotter by the second, the torture… ‘Twas beyond reckoning. 

The orc’s elbow connected with her shoulder just as the Eye moved on. Saldís was spun about, her feet tripping over one another. Her vision obscured by dancing spots, she stumbled into another hard, armored body, and another. She couldn’t _believe_ this. Her body was a bucking wild stallion refusing to heed any command as it writhed in the aftershocks of an incomprehensible torment.

‘Twas then that two indistinct silhouettes appeared to either side of her. They, whoever “they” were, half-scooped, half-dragged her along with them without one word spoken, and as her sight cleared, orc armor came into clarity. _Nay._ With a low growl, she clumsily stabbed right. 

The orc squawked and ducked its head. Instead of impaling its face as she’d intended, Saldís’s sword scraped along the curve of its helmet. Her temper erupted. (She _missed?_ How in Durin’s bloody name could she miss?) She immediately set about fixing the error. She—

“Hey!” Erynor protested. 

_By Mahal._ Saldís froze. Hastily retracting her blade, she gasped, “Are you mad that you’d grab me like that?” 

“You’re right. Next time we’ll sit back and watch you get trampled to death,” Erynor said, the words spat out like projectiles. 

Saldís checked the troll. _Truly?_ It had drawn farther ahead. 

Enough was enough. She shrugged free of Erynor’s clasp with a growl, privately relieved she didn’t instantly collapse. Mahal knew her muscles continued to quiver—she’d never felt so uncoordinated. “We’re losing ground,” she barked. “Move!” She shoved Erynor forward using her elbow and sprinted after him, his back serving as a crutch. 

Erynor growled something in return—was that elvish?—with the word _women_ tossed into the mix. When his head craned around so that he could glare at her, his pace slacking, she kneed him in the butt. 

“Run, you stubborn _rukshul,”_ she roared (son of an orc). She may not be able to do aught against the Black Númenóreans—she snarled each time she thought on it—but she could _by Mahal_ defend Gondor’s ruler— _if_ she and her companions ever _reached_ the man. The Gondorians could not afford their king’s loss, not with the odds so mightily stacked against them. Truly, the king had to be a wonder to have kept them fighting this long. 

His taut shoulders and back muscles broadcasting his anger, Erynor stopped arguing. Instead, he charged forward, clearing a way for Saldís and Calenor by simply lowering his head and barreling through orcs as if he had a troll’s mass. ‘Twas nothing less than suicidal, what he did, but it worked. Orcs and men alike objected, but none were swift enough to catch the three of them in order to vent their spleen. 

Ciryan abruptly reappeared by her right side _(thank Mahal)._ Calenor dropped back behind them. Whether Dori, Nori and Adâd were still in pursuit, Saldís had no idea. Adâd, she trusted, could not be far away, not if he had aught to say about it. 

They ran. By Durin and his infamous beard, they ran and dodged and ran some more, yet the distance between them and the troll never diminished.

Until the low _whump-whump_ of the troll’s footfalls fell silent. The drum-like noise was all the more disconcerting for its absence. Saldís’s head jerked up. 

The troll had reached its target. It must have, for it remained stationary, its attention locked upon someone who scurried this way and that to avoid its cudgel. 

“Fly!” she commanded. Urgency lent Saldís a new spurt of speed. _“Go!”_

She charged through Swan Knights and men bearing Lossarnach’s colors. When some lifted weapons upon sight of her, she swiped off her helmet and scarf with the back of her arm. “Ciryan, helmet!” The men were thicker here, the orcs less. Their orcish disguises would not avail them now. 

Her nadadith didn’t hesitate. Without breaking stride, his helmet came off and was discarded in the dirt. Eyrnor and Calenor followed suit. 

They were closing in now. _Hurry, hurry, hurry._ By Melkor’s Pit, the troll was huge. _Hamstring it. Get it off its feet._

That would be the challenge. 

_Hurry._

OoOoOo

“Aragorn!” multiple voices cried.

The king dispatched one orc and kicked another onto Ziphora’s ready scimitar before whirling around, Andúril lifted defensively. His jaw unhinged when he spotted an enormous troll charging through battling orcs and men as if they were grass underfoot. 

_By the Valar._ He’d never seen a troll so massive. It swung a cudgel like a scythe, its fat lips pulled back in an ugly and angry sneer and its eyes focused upon…

_Me,_ he realized between one breath and the next. It would be on him in seconds.

_“Torog dago!”_ Elladin shouted (Kill the troll!). Dozens of arrows whizzed across the space, each impacting the creature as if they were nothing more than pine needles. The troll didn’t seem to notice them at all. 

The troll’s club arced downward. Aragorn leaped to the side, the ground beneath his feet quaking when the club hit earth. Again, the weapon flew, and he ducked beneath it, flattening himself to the ground and rolling out away. 

The club came again, and Aragorn knew he would not be fast enough to evade it a third time.

OoOoOo

Ziphora saw it coming. A split second choice: the Gondorian king…or herself? If she acted, she’d die. She would not delude herself otherwise.

There was no choice. _For Yanar. For the others._ This king would shield and succor her companions. Another might not. 

With a shout, she leaped.

OoOoOo

A woman shouted, and a body slammed into Aragorn, driving him partially out of harm’s way. The king heard Sivva and Yanar scream, “Ziphora!” in tandem, then the edge of the club caught the king and sent him flying. His ribs crackled in pain, expelling the breath from his lungs.

He crashed down hard. Before he’d caught his breath, Aragorn fought to his knees, then his feet. _Eru, no. Not one of the little ones._ Not on his watch. 

A roaring filled his ears. Yanar, Sivva, Rizhir, and Kyvin faced off with the troll, harrying it, distracting it. There was no sign of Ziphora. 

Golodir’s shout penetrated the haze over Aragorn’s ears, the sound anguished and filled with fury. 

The other Ranger charged.

OoOoOo

Sweat trickled from Tahal’s nape as he and his partner, a sly, blond-haired girl named Ulsa, circled the Black Númenórean army for a second pass, always moving, always keeping orcs between them and their targets. Tahal had darted thirty-six Númenóreans so far, and he guessed Ulsa was near that count. They’d chosen targets fighting dwarves each time, disguising their strikes so that it appeared the dwarves were a lot more skilled than they were.

The dwarves were good. Tahal granted them that. Just not that good. 

Tahal was in his element. This was what he knew best: stalking and killing. He was good with a sword and could stand toe-to-toe with the other Novices, but Tahal preferred the shadows and anonymity. Ulsa was like that too, which is why Tahal had partnered with the strapping girl. 

Well, that and the weird burning feeling he got in his chest every time he looked at her.

They worked well together, really well, and Tahal found himself exchanging smug glances with Ulsa more than once. It was too bad that their supply of darts was dwindling. Soon, the two would have to switch to using throwing blades or risk their bows. Both would attract more attention, but the Novices had their mission. Tahal for one wouldn’t retreat because it got chancier. 

Tahal lined up his next puff of the blowgun. _Your time is up, He-Gharris,_ he thought at the Arcanist famed for his love of crippling, non-lethal poisons. One strong puff, and the dart flew…

…and missed. _By the Pit!_

Tahal disappeared behind two orcs before Gharris located him. That should have been the end of it. _Should_ have. 

Instead, Gharris lobbed a fireball into the orcs’ midst. Tahal registered intense heat, orc roars filling his ears, then an uruk body crashed down on top of him. Pain exploded in his head, and Tahal knew no more.

OoOoOo

He-Gharris plucked the small dart from the edge of his face scarf, the needle-like point bare centimeters from piercing his neck. The Arcanist straightened, his glare scouring the crispy orc bodies he’d felled. Someone had attempted to dart him.

Who? 

Orcs did not use blowguns and darts. They didn’t have the temperament for it. No, an orc’s more brutish nature lent itself to swords, maces, and the bow if pushed. Direct means of assault, all of them. The creatures did not possess the finesse or patience to utilize an assassin’s weapons. That meant either one of Gharris’s people had decided to act on an existing vendetta—doubtful with the Eye watching them so closely—or the turncoat Novices had joined the game. 

_By the Eye._ Gharris had known— _known_ —that the Mouth’s dismissal of the rug rats was a mistake. They might be young, and they might be few, but they were trained soldiers. Yet so supremely confident had Sauron and his mouthpiece been that they hadn’t even posted watch on Durthang. A fool’s mistake if ever there was one. Ar-Tagan would never have been so lax, nor Ar-Cavendor.

_Little good that does us now,_ he thought bitterly. In a pique, he sent a burst of hardened air slamming into the nearest dwarf. The air walloped the dwarf in the chest and sent it crashing into the three runts behind it. All four skidded across dirt for a dozen paces, sliding beneath ally and orc feet. 

Gharris hoped the four died before they recovered. 

“The Novices!” Gharris shouted as the price of his rash spells punched home. His left hand immediately delved into a pocket in search of one of his few remaining vials of blood. “Beware!” he shouted once more. “The Nov—”

He never saw the dagger coming.

OoOoOo

The Arcanist fell with Vestin’s dagger sticking out the back of his skull. _Thank Mahal,_ Dís thought. _If_ Vestin had struck in time.

Dís’s skin crawled in anticipation of local Númenóreans taking up the Arcanist’s cry even as the princess continued with her own taxing fight. Her muscles burned, long since exhausted from the demands she placed upon her body. 

Dís ducked low. Straining thighs and arms moaned as Death-Bringer powered through her foe’s frantic attempt to parry— _I have you now!_ —and gouged deep into the woman’s body. 

Death was instantaneous. With a grunt, Dís wrenched her brother’s sword free.

Dís breathed freer with every second that passed without an uproar sounding. Had none, then, realized what the slain Arcanist had been warning? _Durin’s beard._ It was about time something went the Blacklocks’ way. 

So. The Novices had arrived. She’d little needed that Arcanist’s confirmation, for the proof was written all around the dam. The Blacklocks’ fortunes had swung. Oh, the dwarves continued to lose warriors and ground—the Blacklocks had been driven toward the Host until the orcs’ rearmost lines now backed the Blacklocks’—but her people fell slower now, each kill costlier to the enemy. Between the Novices and _gorrah,_ Black Númenórean numbers had somewhat thinned.

The price, however… Was the Battle of Five Armies like this? Out of over six hundred _gorrah,_ Dís estimated only fifty remained. Of Blacklocks, perhaps a hundred. 

She searched for signs of the Novices even as more enemies presented themselves before her, but once again, the princess failed. _Disguised,_ she was forced to conclude, and she prayed the children knew to keep out of the Blacklocks’ way. Little did the Free Peoples need to find themselves crossing swords due to mistaken identity. 

Unexpectedly, Gimli’s voice reached her. “Legolas!” the warrior shouted. 

“Is that an elf?” Vestin asked roughly, his breaths choppy. 

Dís hazarded a glance, following Vestin’s gaze, and found her Longbeard barred from reaching his elf friend by no less than four Black Númenóreans. Prince Legolas battled with the Mouth alone, and from what Dís saw, the elf was not faring so well. Oh, he’d scored hits. The Mouth’s armor looked rent on one side near the hip and blood trickled out of the corner of its mouth. 

But Legolas had a gash leaking blood into his eyes, and he was favoring one leg. Though the elf fought on with a skill Dwalin could admire, he needed aid, and he needed it anon. Dís and Vestin could not reach him in time even if they somehow managed to free themselves from their foes. Who to…?

“Dár!” Dís roared the instant she spied her hunter.

A white-haired head whipped in her direction, and Dís jerked her head to point the dwarf to his target. “The Mouth!” 

The dwarf’s head bobbed. A second later, an arrow zipped across the distance to embed itself in the back of the Mouth’s shoulder.   
The Mouth ignored the hit, focused upon its prey, but a score of Númenóreans turned on Dár in unison. (Oh, Mahal, what had she done?) Legolas’s life was spared—Alatar suddenly appeared and locked swords with Sauron’s lieutenant before it could strike the elf again—but Dár…

Dís choked back a wash of acidic tears as her old friend fell beneath a dozen blades. He hadn’t stood a chance.

OoOoOo

‘Twas as if every Sauron-curse-it orc conspired to place itself between Nori, his _umral_ , and their target. Every. Confounded. Orc. A trek that should, at worst, have taken but minutes stretched into one handful, then two. He and Bifur had given up subterfuge the instant they’d enter the battlefield dominated by Blacklocks and Númenóreans—they little wished to fight _everyone_ —so they fought bare-headed, shoulder to shoulder as they tried to reach the Mouth before the elf could finish him.

Or, Nori corrected, the Mouth demolished Thranduil’s son. Either outcome looked possible. 

Bifur spat out a litany of words, cursing up a storm by the sound of it, as they both witnessed a Wizard appear and confront the Mouth. _That’s…not Pallando,_ Nori decided after a second look. Nay, this man wore robes the same blue—or near enough as to make no never mind—but this chap’s beard was shorter than Pallando’s, close cut as men of Gondor were wont to wear their facial hair. No feathers adorned the Wizard’s white braids, and this Wizard’s face sported not one but two ugly scars.

The air between Mouth and Wizard lit up with some great clashing of magics, and Bifur’s wild eyes met Nori’s. Aye, and if they two wanted a piece of the Mouth, Nori suspected they’d better find a faster way past orcs, dwarves, and Númenóreans.

Pronto.

OoOoOo

_  
**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor**  
_

Yahzin was wrenched from fears for her new father and the ever-annoying Erynor by the blare of a horn. An _orc_ horn.

She tensed, one hand slapping to the hilt of her scimitar. Her head jerked up, her eyes scanning even as Berenor cursed in obvious pain at a sudden move. It didn’t take but a glance at the Morrâd to find the source of the call. Three tall uruk-hai led a troop of orcs around a bend in the road that curved behind a rise in the plateau. Chills pebbled her skin as rank after rank came into view. _Twenty,_ she estimated. _No, thirty…forty._

Yahzin stopped counting. By the Eye, this wasn’t good. Her scimitar rasped as she drew it from its scabbard. She swallowed back panic and steadied herself. 

Berenor brought his _emala_ to a shuddering and squawking halt. Yahzin followed suit along with the rest of the Novices. They clustered around Berenor, all of them looking to Yahzin’s brother for direction. 

“Turn around,” Berenor said, reining his bird about and lifting his chin to command them to do the same.

“What?” Yahzin asked.

“We can’t take them,” Berenor said tightly. “I’ll do what I can to delay them. The rest of you pretend you’re making for Durthang. Once the orcs are out of view, head for Mordor’s eastern borders. From there, go south, skirting around the Morrâd and any orcs.”

Yahzin’s hand twisted around her _emala’s_ reins. In a tight voice, she said, “I’m not leaving you.”

“Cat—”

“No,” she growled. “I may not know much about family, but I know sisters don’t abandon their brothers.” Or at least this one wouldn’t. 

Their eyes clashed, and Yahzin read Berenor’s fear and frustration upon his face. _Please,_ she silently willed. _Please understand._

OoOoOo

Yahzin’s eyes begged him not to send her away, tearing at Berenor’s resolve. _By the Valar._ His father would tan his hide, age be hanged, if he didn’t get his new sister out of harm’s way.

“How about we save this for later?” little Nahir interrupted. With short, curly auburn locks atop a elfin, freckled face, the boy looked heartbreakingly cute until one got a look at his eyes. Those betrayed the sharp reserve, the suspicion with which he viewed the world. No kid should have such old eyes. 

Berenor bobbed his head in swift agreement. “Alright. I want all of you—”

“No,” Yahzin, Nahir and four others protested in unison. Berenor's teeth ground in frustration. 

“We stick together,” Lohri managed, ignoring Berenor’s glare. The girl couldn’t even sit upright anymore, not on her own, and _still_ she countermanded his orders.

“Um,” a new voice interrupted. Harrid, Berenor identified when he located the stocky, black-haired teen. “Whatever we’re doing, we’d better do it fast.” 

Berenor pounced. “We are—” 

“—fighting,” Thyndo finished for him. The slender thirteen-year-old rotated a dagger in one hand, chin lifted. 

_Oh no. Oh SO no. “We_ are certainly not,” Berenor stressed. “I will—”

“Too late,” Ovander said cheerfully as he nocked his bow. “They’ve spotted us.” 

What? Already? Berenor whipped back around, verified Ovander’s claim for himself, then erupted into such a landslide of curses that Yahzin’s eyebrow cocked upwards. “Don’t give me that,” he snapped at her. To all of them, he tried one last time, “Run. Please.”

None of them moved. Not. One. _Mibo orch!_ (Kiss an orc!) Berenor readied his own bow, arms screaming at the strain. “Now would be a good time to wake up, Finnin.”

Maybe the dwarf could talk sense to the little hellions. They sure as night weren’t heeding a word Berenor said. 

The orcs neared. With a shout and raised sword, one uruk-hai gave what had to be the order to charge.

OoOoOo

_  
**Morannon, Mordor**  
_

Overhead, a shriek from a winged shadow announced the arrival of the Nazgûl. Pain exploded through Saldís’s body at almost Eye levels. She gasped, her vision darkening ominously. 

No. She trudged on until she won free of the Gondorian lines. Her target came into view, unobstructed by combatants. Her body screamed in agony, and her muscles quivered until it was a challenge merely to keep her feet. It couldn’t matter. She forced air into her lungs as she absorbed the tableau before her. 

_Nay._ Her breath caught, and fear sizzled through her veins. Mahal, what were they thinking? Four of her Novices harassed the troll, working in concert to keep it’s attention off of a man wobbling to his feet with an ugly red stain spreading upon his side. 

Was this Aragorn? 

A Ranger in gray raced towards the four teenagers from another direction, roaring the same denial and rage that Saldís felt. 

_Not my Novices._ She’d failed them once. She’d not do so again. Saldís forced her body into motion. Each contraction and release of muscle caused deeper agony, and her vision steadily deteriorated, but she ran. 

_Keep. Going._ ‘Twas as if thousands of javelins plunged into her flesh mercilessly, over and over again. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth as her teeth bit into her tongue. 

“Saldís, _nay!”_ she heard Dori cry as she leaped at the troll’s back, her sword held like a dagger ready to drive deep.

Ciryan shouted something. Erynor was a dark shadow as he tackled a tall Novice when the troll’s club swung near…

OoOoOo

Berenor’s team released their first volley of arrows in unison. The air filled with a hissing noise, and a half dozen orcs fell. Others tripped over the fallen bodies.

It was not enough. He’d known it wouldn’t be. _I’m sorry._ Whether he meant that for his father, his cousin, or the kids, he wasn’t sure. He was _sorry,_ but there was nothing more he could do. 

Berenor managed to fire two more arrows, his _emala_ fidgeting and wishing to flee. The lead uruk-hair shouted with dark glee, its broadsword lifted high, ready to strike while Berenor fumbled to free his own blade, Finnin’s bulk hampering him…

OoOoOo

Bifur roared his victory as finally the last impediment betwixt himself and the cur who’d wreaked havoc on Bifur’s family vanished. The Mouth ne’er saw him coming. Nay, the creature exchanged blows with a Wizard, and sparks rained down from the combatants’ weapons with every block, every parry.

Bifur braced his elbow to his side, forearm straight out as he lined up his spear. He needed only ten steps…then nine…eight…

OoOoOo

“Legolas!” Gimli reached his friend’s side and hauled the wounded elf to his feet. “Durin’s beard, you’re a mess.” But alive, thank the dwarf fathers.

Legolas shot him a disbelieving look.

“Well, you are,” Gimli defended…

OoOoOo

Bofur had been cursing himself as a thrice-dipped fool since the second he’d lost sight o’ Ciryan, Saldís and Bifur in Udûn. Aye, and the dark-eyed, blond-haired Novice he’d intended to watch over, too. So torn with keeping tabs on both, he’d been, that he’d failed them all spectacularly. Instead of doing any protecting, Bofur had found himself working alone, lost in a sea o’ orcs and other foul things.

Until he’d heard Gimli’s voice. What, he’d wondered the entire time he struggled through masses of orcs, was Gloin’s son doing here? 

But Bofur knew that lad’s voice, and so he rushed to the younger dwarf’s side as fast as his legs could…

OoOoOo

Miles away, a simple golden band twisted and turned as it plummeted down Mount Doom’s throat. It landed in a sea of molten lava…and disintegrated.

The Eye screamed, the sound deafening enough to draw eyes of orcs, men and dwarves alike. All gaped as atop Barad-Dur, Sauron’s Eye burst into hotter flames. The ball shook with endless rage and hate even as it lost cohesion, its pupil soon swallowed up by its own fires. 

Then it inexplicably exploded. The _boom_ rattled every ear and quaked the very ground. Before disbelieving eyes, Barad-Dur shattered from the percussion. Out, the aftershock spread, an expanding sphere of gale winds that howled down Udûn. Orcs were blasted from the Black Gates, and the combatants fighting below were toppled. 

Those men, orcs, and dwarves still upright backed away from one another to stare uncomprehending at the empty space where once the tower had stood. Slowly, the realization dawned. Sauron the Deceiver was no more.

OoOoOo

Saldís howled. For all her furious might, all her desperation, her accursed orc-made sword penetrated a scant six inches into the thick mat of muscle crisscrossing the troll’s back. Six. Inches. _Urkhas kûd!_ With feet haphazardly propped up on the creature’s war harness, she stared at the paltry wound for one bat of the eye, disbelieving, her muscles quivering uncontrollably. The Nazgûl-generated agony continued its relentless assault, and she felt consciousness leaking away like a dropped water pouch, one large _glug_ at a time.

 _Nay, not yet._ She shoved at the blade, attempting to force it deeper, all of her body weight thrown behind the effort.

The troll bellowed, and an angry and grasping hand whipped over its shoulder. Saldís’s eyes flared. She reacted far too slowly. 

She was yanked, spitting and cursing— _without her sword!_ —from the troll’s back. Saldís wiggled and snarled. How could she lose her sword like that? The fist trapping her legs tightened…

…until a deafening screech tore through the air, an auditory assault so extreme Saldís feared her head might rupture as the headache she’d nursed since Durthang magnified into pure, molten torment. Her hand flew to her skull as if it could hold it together. ‘Twas all she could do to swallow a whimper. 

The troll shook her once, hard, and Saldís fleetingly wished for death as her heartbeat pounded out an excruciating thunder that rattled her very skull. She near wept when the troll paused with her suspended upside down. It focused on the source of the terrible noise. They both did. Saldís forced her eyelids to part and surveyed the world between splayed fingers. 

The Eye burned. ‘Twas not the contained and controlled flames of before, nor even even the snapping white fury that had beamed down on the Isenmouthe at one point. Nay, these flames raged wildly, hungrily devouring even the Eye’s pupil. 

Saldís stared blankly, her vision spotted and mind sluggish. What was this? 

Her body jerked when the Eye exploded and took Barad-Dur with it. The grating, all-consuming agony she’d associated with the Eye and Nazgûl’s presences…vanished. Saldís dangled, gulping in lungs-full of air, her head yet screaming and muscles and bones throbbing, but the rest… It was gone. _Gone._

A shudder wracked her spine, one of infinite relief. She had a second to breathe freely, to begin to hope—oh, to dare hope—that this meant what her befuddled mind whispered it meant. Had the Dark Lord somehow, someway been destroyed? 

The fist around her legs tightened. She cried out and wrestled with the troll’s hold. _By Durin, I’ll not—_

The troll hurled her. 

The world blurred. Saldís crashed through men and orcs until she slammed into a big, broad body encased in a Swan Knight’s armor. The twain of them toppled, thumping hard into the ground. There, they lay, with Saldís atop the man’s chest, her left arm to one side and legs entangled with the man’s. 

Stunned.

Saldís watched dazedly as Eagles winged overhead in an aerial dance. It took her a good dozen seconds to realize they attacked the Nazgûl. And by Mahal, they were _winning._

The man groaned and moved. 

At least she’d not killed him. A distant part of her counseled to remove herself, to spare him her weight, but her body cried otherwise. It was done. 

Emotions swelled, and her eyes pricked with tears. Could this be it? Was the Dark Lord truly defeated? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. All the suffering. All the pain and hatred and evil…gone?

_Not the Black Númenóreans._ A tear defied her iron control and dribbled down her cheek. By Mahal, she was tired. She wanted an end to war and violence. _Finnin? I need you._

‘Twas Dori who appeared instead. _That’s right._ Finnin was miles away by now. Safe with Berenor and the wounded, if Mahal had any mercy. 

Dori’s lips moved. His eyes rushed over her frantically as he pulled her upright and freed her from her borrowed armor. Even (bless him) the wretched, lumbering boots. Ciryan hovered close, guarding them, and Saldís was somewhat aware that the Swan Knight managed to drag his body to a seat, too. From the way Dori directed words the man’s way, she concluded Dori and the knight knew one another. 

Barad-Dur had fallen. Her mind rang with it. It was gone, and with it, she thought with dawning realization, had gone much of the agony she’d associated with the poison in her veins. She didn’t doubt the poison lived on, but ‘twas weaker. Blessedly, wonderfully weaker. If Pallando had survived, mayhap there was hope for her yet. 

“Is it over?” Ciryan asked in a voice heartbreakingly young. “Is he…?” He waved a helpless hand.

Nearby, a voice took up a sudden call. “Frodo!” the voice shouted. “Frodo!”

If Saldís had been capable of further shock, sight of the tiny, child-like form issuing the call would have knocked her off her feet. What in Mahal’s name was a _hobbit_ doing here? 

The hobbit raised an equally undersized sword into the air and shouted again, “Frodo!”

Men began to cheer and roar their relief. The Gondorian Saldís had crashed into removed his helm and rubbed his face, his sea-gray eyes tired. “Thank the Valar,” he muttered.

Orcs shuffled backwards, uncertain. The troll who’d tossed Saldís like so much rubbish spun away from Mordor…and died as the Ranger Saldís had seen earlier rammed his sword right through the troll’s heart. The creature fell with a muffled thump, leaving the Ranger victorious over it. 

“See? Now _that’s_ how you fell a troll,” Ciryan jested with a wobbly smirk. 

_…how you fell…?_ Saldís growled. “My way would have worked.”

Dori huffed his disagreement, his scowl telling her he was in no ways happy with her. 

_Over,_ she thought again, the seedling of hope in her chest taking root. Aye, truly, miraculously over. 

She flinched as a second boom shook the ground. Her head jerked up—she winced as a new spear of agony lanced her skull—to see Mount Doom erupt. Molten fire spewed into the air, setting the southeastern horizon aglow. “Berenor. Yahzin,” she whispered, her heart hiccuping. _Finnin._

“I’m sure they made it out,” Dori murmured into her hair as he hauled her into his arms. “They must be half way to Minas Morgul by now.”

Maybe. Maybe.

But the Dark Lord was gone. It was over. Over, over, ov—

OoOoOo

Ar-Kimilzor batted the accursed wizard’s sword aside, sweating and cursing under his breath. A blast of hardened air blocked the old man’s long knife as it darted in low.

The small shield barely formed in time. By the Eye, it was all Kimilzor could do to keep his enemy’s weapons from him, especially when two dwarves entered the fray, one of which _shouldn’t have been there._

Three against one. The former Lord Sangahyando danced around _that dwarf’s_ powerful jabs with every scrap of skill he possessed, all the while utilizing bursts of air to keep the second dwarf’s daggers and the Wizard’s staff from him. 

_Gone,_ he seethed. His master—fury howled through Kimilzor at how thoroughly he had been used—was destroyed and along with him, the Black Númenóreans’ access to the Darkness’s fount of sorcery. Once the magics in Kimilzor’s veins were depleted (an event rapidly approaching), he would be rendered impotent. _Neutered._ Like a common, lesser man.

And not he alone! No, all of the Arcanists would be so disarmed. No amount of bloodshed could alter that eventuality. 

_Gone,_ he spat again, unable to contain his rage. The Nazgûl would fade. _If they haven’t already._ The orcs scattered before his eyes, cowardly creatures that they were. Kimilzor shouted orders at his remaining commanders and Lords, reestablishing order of an army much reduced by the orcs’ defection, but he was no longer confident of victory. 

Worse, thanks to Sauron’s failure, success on this battlefield would not be the end of it. Middle Earth would hunt Kimilzor’s people into extinction. The secrecy that had sheltered them was gone, and the Black Númenóreans had not the numbers to conquer the world alone.

_Curse you,_ he directed at the Dark Lord. _Curse you to the deepest bowels of the Pit._ Sauron’s arrogance, his absolute _stupidity,_ had wrought this outcome. Instead of glory and power, the Black Númenóreans faced annihilation if they could not figure out a way to reestablish a link to the Darkness and restore their Arcanists.

But then a shock, one that almost cost Kimilzor his head by the unfamiliar dwarf’s hand. Kimilzor ducked and spun, scimitar clashing with the wizard’s sword. Something had brushed against him. _Him,_ not his body. Something amorphous. Intangible, but undeniable. 

Just as fast, it returned grab him in its punishing fist. _Yessss,_ a dark Voice intoned within his skull. The Arcanist had time for one inhale, one realization—the Darkness itself, frothing with fury at its underling’s defeat, had sought feverishly for a new conduit through which to vent its rage. It would not accept defeat, not again. Stumbling across Kimilzor, it reacted with first speculation and then dark glee.

_A Vessel,_ it crooned. 

A spurt of fear, an avalanche of fury. Kimilzor gnashed his teeth, refusing to be reigned and debased again. 

But that was not the Darkness’s intent. No, power poured into Kimilzor without chains—unlimited, unmatched, heady power. It filled him, permeating every cell in his body, and through Kimilzor, it flowed into his Arcanists. 

Kimilzor stopped fighting and smiled a toothy smile.

The Wizard’s attack faltered, his eyes rounded. _Sensed that, did you,_ Kimilzor purred. 

With a blast of power, he sent the Wizard flying. The blue-robed form smacked sickeningly into the Black Gates and flopped to the ground. 

Kimilzor’s toothy smile grew. Oh, this would be fun. He turned next to the dwarves.

OoOoOo

With the Darkness’s return, Saldís screamed as new agony tore through her body. 


	67. A Father's Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to include Aragorn's speech from the movie. Forgive me--it was too inspiration to leave off. :)

_**Plateau of Gorgoroth, Mordor** _

Berenor clenched his teeth, biting back a snarl. Pain would not stop him, not with the ever-present awareness of the wounded depending on him hanging over his head. His sword flashed right, then left, then back again in a desperate bid to stem the tide of orcs flowing by. Yahzin was a constant presence three meters to his left, and it was all Berenor could do to keep fighting instead of grabbing her and trying (likely in vain) to defend her with his life.

_Eru._

He was failing, curse it. With each orc that penetrated his defenses to rush at the kids behind him, he failed and failed and failed. He didn’t have time to spare to glance over his shoulder and see how many Novices he’d lost. He couldn’t, or he’d lose more. 

Finnin mumbled, the words lost to the clang of swords and orcish screeches. For all Berenor knew, it wasn’t Westron the dwarf spoke anyway. Berenor blocked another slash of a blade before kicking out with his boot, breaking the orc’s nose and (if Eru was kind) its face. It stumbled back into its companions…

…and the Eye screamed. The incredible, high-pitched noise vibrated through Berenor’s bones. Finnin groaned lowly, his head twisting to one side. 

All combat ceased. Before Berenor’s disbelieving eyes, the orcs backed away. Their heads craned in unison towards where the Eye flamed wildly, furiously. When Barad-Dur fell, they bolted. Eru be _praised,_ they bolted. 

Berenor threw a wild look over his shoulder at his charges— _they live!_ a part of him howled with glee—and he made a split-second decision. Whatever it was Sauron was doing or had done, Berenor wasn’t waiting around for the results. 

“Fly!” he roared and kicked his _emala_ into a gallop. 

Berenor and his Novices fled at stop speed for the Pass of Cirith Ungol.

OoOoOo

__  
__  
**The Morannon**  
  


Kimilzor laughed, savage in his exaltation. Dark power sizzled through his veins, limitless, heady and seductive. Nothing could stop him. Nothing and no one could stand against him. 

Not on this battlefield. Not anywhere on Middle Earth. He was a god beset by piddling insects. All of Arda would bow before him.

With a flick of a finger, Kimilzor sent the auburn-haired dwarf flying into the midst of battling dwarves and Númenóreans. When Bifur tried to run Kimilzor through with a spear again— _what,_ Kimilzor mused idly, _are you doing free?_ —he received the same treatment. Akhora’s so-called _father_ slammed into into one of the darker runts, and the two toppled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. _Don’t worry, little dwarf,_ he thought. _I won’t permit you to die so easily._

Bifur must live long enough to witness Akhora’s transformation. Kimilzor would not be denied that exquisite enjoyment. He fully intended to be present to witness the event. 

_I could, perhaps, hasten it._ With the power burning through his veins? Oh yes, he could do that. 

Chortling under his breath, Kimilzor unleashed on the tattered remnants of the dwarf army, knocking them down with flicks of his fingers, his smile growing. If Akhora was present—he was confident she was—he would bide his time. No need to open a vein to track her down. Akhora would seek him. On that score, Kimilzor had no doubts. 

In the meantime, Kimilzor…played.

OoOoOo

Cheers died as the Blue Wizard’s body dropped to form a dejected puddle of sea-blue at the base of the Black Gates. Orcs continued to scatter, pushing the Host into a slow retreat that the men did not resist. They let the orcs escape unscathed but for those few who lifted weapon against them.

Mutters arose among the Host’s ranks, words of trepidation and the beginnings of a crushing disappointment. The Eye was gone, but if Arcanists could defeat the Blue Wizard so handily, what hope had men? Those bearing Lebennin’s standard, and Lamedon’s too, shifted nervously with burgeoning fear in their eyes. What had been believed to be victory now seemed something else, and unease rippled through their ranks in a visible wave. 

Swallowing back tears, his heart breaking to leave Ziphora’s lifeless body, Aragorn smoothed back the girl’s hair before standing. She’d spent her life to spare his, and he’d never forget it. A child had died for him this day.

“Rest in peace, brave daughter of Numenor,” he whispered. 

With sword in one hand and the other pressed to his throbbing, blood-slicked side, Aragorn strode forward. His pace accelerated to a jog when the curtain of orcs separating the Host from the ongoing fight between Black Númenóreans and Blacklocks parted. For the first time, Aragorn and his Host had a clear view of the carnage the Black Númenóreans had wrought upon their dwarf allies, and the sight was enough to steal the remaining courage from Aragorn’s men. 

_Eru._ Where six hundred dwarves had stood, and a matching number of their deadly lizards, now remained perhaps thirty lizards and three score dwarves. As he watched, Aragorn deemed it a miracle any had survived. Those yet standing fought on fearlessly against overwhelming odds, but they were losing swiftly. Men began to retreat in earnest as magical fires and bucking earth demonstrated to the Host just what had decimated the dwarves. Fear spread through the Host’s ranks like a rancid perfume. 

_No._ Aragorn sprinted to the front of his much depleted army. “Hold your ground! Hold your ground!” he bellowed. Facing his men, he was greeted with wild eyes and pale visages. Silence descended among them, one all the deeper for the roaring violence behind Aragorn’s back. _Hurry,_ an inner voice urged. _Hurry._ The Blacklocks could not stand alone. 

“Sons of Gondor, sons of Rohan, my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart from me,” he cried. “A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship...but it is not this day.” _Let it not be this day._ He paced before them, betraying no hint of pain or weakness. Every nuance, every word must restore boldness and courage to these defenders. “An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down…

“…but it is not this day,” he repeated. “This day, we fight. By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!” 

Swords flashed towards the sky, and thunderous cheers filled the air. Chills broke out upon the king’s skin. _They will fight._ Eru have mercy, the Host would once again face death with courage. 

“We will follow you to the end, my king,” Mablung murmured. 

With one last shared glance with his men, Aragorn said, “For our people.” He pivoted…and raced towards the enemy. 

The Host roared and chased after him.

OoOoOo

Saldís collapsed into Dori’s arms as the agony that had swallowed her whole just as abruptly spit her out. _By Mahal._ Being dropped into Mount Doom’s molten core would have been preferable. At least that would have been over before she could blink. This… This interaction between the poison in her veins with the Eye and his creatures was excruciating beyond anything she’d heretofore imagined.

Panting, she slowly regained control of herself. The shrieks she’d buried in her uncle’s chest tapered off. The pain was not gone, not entirely, and her muscles quaked uncontrollably under its lash, but where before it had reduced her to mindless suffering, it now sizzled along her nerve endings, terrible rather than unsurvivable. 

Dori had her trapped in a tight embrace and rocked her while in the not too far distance, the sounds of clashing armies resumed. Saldís clutched Dori to her with her left hand and waited for her breaths to even out, for lucidity to return. 

What had caused that type of agony to return? Had Sauron somehow managed to once again elude death’s final grip? 

“Adâd?” Saldís croaked. She loved Dori, but it was her sire or Finnin she needed in that moment. Her mind only then sluggishly realized that if Bifur had heard her screams, he’d have been at her side in a flash. It would have been Bifur holding her, not Dori. 

Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

Where was Adâd?

Dori stiffened. His arms eased up, not squeezing quite so tightly, and his beard brushed the top of her head as he looked in first one direction, then the other. 

_Nori._ She withdrew from Dori’s unresisting arms, aware of Ciryan’s palm on her back. Her brother’s lanky form squatted by her side, his scimitar out and his body tense, watchful. 

He protected them.

Saldís scanned the area as Dori continued to do. A bad feeling took hold when she failed to locate either Adâd or Nori. With Ciryan’s aid, she rose to her bare feet, the ground rocky beneath heel and toes. 

“Adâd?” she managed again. The battle raging to her north caught her attention. The men of Gondor fought valiantly, but Arcanist sorceries plagued them. ‘Twas chaos, that, and a part of her rose up demanding she do something about it. 

_Move,_ it hissed. _The battle is not won. This is not the time for weakness._

It spoke true. Sauron had yet to be utterly destroyed—mayhap—and there were the Black Númenóreans and Kimilzor (may he rot) still to be dealt with. Erynor and Calenor… A sweep of the area confirmed her fears. The Brothers were in that mess of slicing blades and foul magics. Her Novices would be, too. 

Her feet did not move. A grasping, clawing panic began to tear at her heart, one drenched in anger. Adâd and Nori were nowhere to be found. Curse her soul, how long had they been gone and how— _how_ —could she have failed to notice their absence?

“Nori,” Dori shouted. 

_They wouldn’t._ Goose flesh broke out upon her skin. _Surely they wouldn’t._

“Saldís? Do we help them?” Ciryan asked, his attention returning time and again to the battle. 

Nori and Bifur would only abandon family if compelled by a harsh hand. She could think of only two things that would suffice. Either one or both dwarves had been grievously wounded (she refused to consider worse) or… 

_Nay._

Saldís ran. She cared not that with each jarring footstep her skull trembled as if assaulted by a battering ram. She cared not that sharp stones tore at her soles and threw off her balance. She didn’t even care when the poison’s lash returned and whipped her harder with each yard she gained on the Númenóreans until it felt as if she rushed toward the Eye itself. 

Everything ceased to exist but her adâd…and what he’d done. She mindlessly plowed through the Gondorians, wildly searching. If swords flashed her way, she didn’t see them. Only one thing mattered: eking as much speed out of her screaming limbs as she could. 

Pain would not stop her. It couldn’t. 

_Adâd!_

All the while, words replayed through her mind, words overheard from as far back as Thorin’s Hall. Nori’s words. Adâd and Bofur’s words. Words of fury and vengeance.

Her vision tunneled as terror rode roughshod over her. Instinct howled that she had it right, that her uncle and sire had gone hunting Kimilzor, and tears blurred her vision that _she hadn’t noticed._ How could she not notice? Her soul screamed to have so spectacularly failed her adâd. 

_You cannot do this. Adâd? You can’t leave me._

OoOoOo

“Saldís!”

Ciryan dashed after his sister, lungs and muscles burning, but no matter what, he did not gain on her. Within a matter of seconds, she vanished into the Gondorians’ midst. 

No. _NO._ He’d lost her! 

By his side, the dwarf Dori cursed up a storm, each incomprehensible word spat out with both venom and alarm. Whatever it was the dwarf said, Ciryan silently added his agreement. 

What had just happened? One minute, Saldís had been woozily searching for her sire. The next, she’d run off as if every warg in Mordor was on her tail. 

She’d _left_ him. 

Oh, he knew she feared for her father. He understood that. Somewhat. But this? His eyes pricked, and he managed another crumb of speed. She was his sister. They were supposed to fight _together._ He’d promised to guard her, and by the Eye, he wouldn’t be forsworn.

_Abandoned._

Ciryan shoved the feeling aside. Saldís wasn’t in any condition to be thinking clearly. Any fool could tell _that._ That meant she needed her brother more, not less. _No matter what SHE thinks._ (Was a brother allowed to chain his sister’s wrist to him if she kept throwing herself into danger like this?)

The dwarf abruptly snatched hold of Ciryan’s arm, slowing him. Ciryan almost punched the dwarf. “Let me go,” he snarled, lifting his scimitar. His sister needed him, curse it. She had only one arm to fight with, and she’d _lost her sword._ Did she even remember that?

The dwarf grabbed hold of Ciryan’s shoulders and shook him. “Kimilzor,” Dori barked. “The thrice-accursed fools went after Kimilzor.”

Ciryan froze. The Mouth. No wonder his sister had panicked. The idiot dwarves were going to get themselves killed. Ciryan rose to tiptoes and scanned the sea of combatants. Where…where?

It was no use. He was too short, and the Mouth was no longer mounted in plain view. 

Well, Ciryan knew Kimilzor. Maybe not as well as Saldís but well enough. _He’ll be in the thick of things,_ he thought, his lips flattening. Kimilzor wouldn’t be rash enough to get caught surrounded by enemies. No, he’d plant himself in the middle of a dozen Arcanists and direct the Black Númenóreans from there. 

That meant Ciryan and Dori had a lot of fighting ahead of them to reach their destination. _So will they. It will delay them._

The Novice tugged Dori in his wake as he dove into the Gondorians’ midst. A grim thought: _If the Gondorians mistake us for Númenóreans, we’re dead meat._ Ciryan and his sister both. With them garbed in the enemy’s uniform, it was likelier to happen than he was comfortable with.

OoOoOo

The White Wizard bowed over the crown of his staff, eyes closed. For an instant, the weight of evil upon the world had dissipated with Sauron the Accursed’s passing, but before relief could fully set in, it had returned. How? It should not have been possible.

Gandalf’s eyes flew open as he sensed the answer, an answer more terrible than he’d feared. The Darkness had found Itself a new Vessel, one unbound by Rings, one without one foot trapped in death’s jaws. One, Gandalf realized with sick horror and pity, already molded and altered to house a power too dark and consuming for mere man to survive.

The Mouth. Sauron had twisted and adulterated the man more than Gandalf had dreamed.

But where Sauron could not be slain so long as the One Ring existed, the same could not be said of the Darkness’s newest Vessel. Therein lay Middle Earth’s hope: the Mouth was yet mortal. 

The challenge, Gandalf feared, would be reaching the man before the Mouth learned to fully harness the formidable power flowing through his veins. Someone must survive the Mouth’s sorcery long enough to strike the killing blow. 

_Fly, you fool._ With his white robes flapping at his ankles, the White Wizard ran.

OoOoOo

Anuon bumped into Thannor as the men of Gondor crashed upon the Black Númenóreans’ southernmost ranks. Both Rangers ducked ally weapons as they hastily shucked the Black Númenórean gear that had disguised them from the enemy.

“Hold!” Thannor barked at a Swan Knight with merciless eyes. Flames lit up the world, and the three men flinched as a fiery tongue whipped out, devouring men and dwarves mere yards from their position. _Nienna have mercy._ There was no fighting such an attack. 

Thannor refocused upon the Dol Amrothian. Removing a simple head scarf did not convince the knight of Thannor’s or Anuon’s allegiance. Far from it. Both Rangers dodged the man’s sword as he growled, “Lies. Die, you murderous—” 

Calenglad materialized from the surrounding men and blocked the knight’s back swing. “Ho, Thannor,” the bald Ranger greeted. “Decided to join the party?” Calenglad twirled past Thannor in a dance of flashing blades. The older Ranger’s intervention spared Thannor from a sword through his back. 

“You know them?” the Knight demanded.

“Black Company,” Calenglad answered. To Thannor, “Are there more of you we need to worry about?”

“Erynor, Calenor, and Saldís are in this mess somewhere,” Thannor shouted back. “The Novices, too.”

Calenglad muttered words Thannor didn’t catch. Then the man tossed a harried scowl Thannor’s way. “You do realize we’ve no way to tell them apart from the enemy?”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Thannor responded grimly. This situation had much to be desired.

He thanked Eru that Berenor was not caught in this mess, too.

OoOoOo

Dís slammed Death-Bringer’s hilt into a Weapon’s face, then she jabbed the blade in the opposite direction, awkwardly blocking a scimitar from reaching the back of Vestin’s skull. A heavy ax swung into view, and she ducked, letting Vestin’s commander, Skirfar, split the head of Vestin’s attacker in two from crown to chin. The blow came so fast, she suspected the dead Weapon had found himself in Mandos’s hands before he’d even realized he’d been in peril.

The princess gasped for breath, her lungs burning and muscles shaking from exertion. With the Host’s arrival, the men had absorbed much of the overwhelming pressure that had characterized the previous ten or so minutes of battle. What had been accelerating to a decisive slaughter of the Blacklocks had slowed. 

A few of them, she mused grimly, might survive. 

Perhaps.

Skirfar’s arrival had certainly bettered Dís and Vestin’s chances. The dwarf’s big axes never stilled. It was like having a shorter, darker Dwalin at her back, and Dís felt infinitely safer for the addition. 

_Safe- **er**_ , she stressed as a punishing wind blew past, one whipping up stinging dirt and rocks and carrying with it the putrid air of Mordor. Immediately, the army was swallowed in a yellow-brown haze, limiting visibility even as it blasted across bare skin like sandpaper. It also ruined her vision for precious seconds as she blinked and blinked to clear her eyes of grit. 

_Mahal._ The Arcanists would see them all dead.

OoOoOo

As orcs fled, lone sentinels lingered across the battlefield, each one’s weight shifting from foot to foot and helmet panning as if in search of guidance. Neither Host nor Black Númenóreans paid them any attention.

One removed his helmet cautiously, releasing a long braid of black hair and revealing sun-kissed skin and gray eyes. Gylmal wiped grit from his face using the back of one arm as he searched for allies, his brow lined and lips white with strain. With orcs abandoning the fight, the Novices could no longer hide among them. They had to change tactics.

Behind him, Ahnik and Hennah followed his lead, dropping their helmets onto the ground and then tackling their cumbersome armor. 

“What do we do?” Hennah whispered. Ahnik jumped in to assist her when the leather knots keeping her chest piece in place tangled. 

“We fight,” Gylmal answered with a confidence he did not feel. Inside, Gylmal wished Yanar was there, or Tahal. Alhez was long gone—a pang of grief hit him at the reminder, for he’d felt closest to Alhez—and Gylmal hadn’t caught sight of Ib-Saldís or her Ranger friends since Udûn. There was no one to direct him. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ he told himself. _You know what to do._ He only wished there were more Novices to do it. Fear whispered that Gylmal, Hennah, and Ahnik were all that was left. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ that same inner voice repeated. The three of them had years of training upon which to draw. As Saldís had said, this was it. Middle Earth would be won or lost this day, and if they were the only Novices left, Gylmal intended to do as much damage as he could to the people who had raped, tortured, and slain his fellows before he died, too. He wasn’t sitting this fight out.

But then his breath hitched. Thirty yards away, another orc discarded its helmet. Then there, in the opposite direction, another whipped off its helmet…and another and another. Novices unlatched heavy orc armor as they converged upon Gylmal’s location. In a matter of minutes, Gylmal had a score of them clustered around him, and still more raced in his direction. 

_Not dead._ Relief unknotted the snarl of grief and anxiety clogging his throat. Ulsa and Harval arrived, the two picking their way over corpses as they carried a woozy Tahal between them. Gylmal’s lips trembled as he swallowed back an avalanche of emotions. _Not alone._ His teammates had survived. They’d _survived._

 _Not all,_ a part of him tried to point out. Gylmal squashed it. 

“Is he gone? Is Sauron dead?” one Novice asked.

“What do we do now, Gylmal?”

“Where is Ib-Saldís?”

“What about—?”

“Alright,” Gylmal said, standing tall. “The plan hasn’t changed. Ib-Saldís told us what to do. We go in, we kill, we get out. Whether _he_ is gone or not, our ‘people’ still need killing. I figure there’s no one better to do that than us.”

A rumble of agreement. Chins lifted. 

Gylmal forced a bitter smile to his lips. “We’ve spent years sneaking around avoiding notice. We’ve bled and suffered learning how. No one is better. So, we use that.” His chin jerked towards the battle occurring some fifty yards away. “They’re too busy focusing on the Gondorians and the dwarves to notice us. We stay low and move slowly.” His smile sharpened. “It’s payback time.”

As a unit, the Novices shucked the rest of their orc armor. They had to be silent and swift, exactly what their Númenórean uniforms had been designed for. After stashing Tahal in a depression far enough from the fight to accord him a measure of safety, a small but spreading tide of black crept towards the war zone. The last of the Novices’ poisons coated their blades. Retribution was at hand.

OoOoOo

Bifur bellowed, the vein in his temple pounding mercilessly.

Time and again, the Mouth catapulted him backwards, preventing him getting close enough to strike while at the same time doing naught to slay him. The foul knave toyed with him, and Bifur’s temper burned all the hotter when he realized it. Doubtless, the man had plans in mind, plans involving Bifur and his daughter.

_You’ll not touch her. Never again._

After the first knock back, Nori had disappeared. Bifur’s _umral_ was slinking among warring men and dwarves, Bifur assumed, with the aim of approaching the Mouth from behind. After the Mouth’s show of power (Mahal, Bifur hoped the Wizard lived, and not only for Saldís’s sake) all fighters gave the Mouth a wide berth, even the Mouth’s allies. Kimilzor kept a stream of flame flowing from one hand to the other, playing with it like a dwarfling would a toy. Back and forth, fire poured would pour until the man abruptly thrust out a palm. Then, flames would shoot out like a molten were-worm, incinerating all in its path.

The only ones safe from Kimilzor’s attention, it seemed to Bifur, were Bifur and Kimilzor’s fellow Arcanists. Even Weapons were sacrificed to Kimilzor’s flames like so much rubbish. 

_Durin._ Bifur flinched as another such column of flames billowed across the war zone bare yards from his position. The heat was intense, instantly scorching his skin and lungs. With a cry, he shied away. 

As fast it had begun, the assault ended. In its wake, a trench five feet wide gouged a smoldering path through the battlefield. In its trough, Gondorian armor glowed like coals. The bodies encased inside the armor... 

Bile rose in his throat. There were no survivors. Bifur saw naught but charred skeletons in the maelstrom’s path, and littering its edges? Corpses covered in brittle, papery black skin. 

Ignoring the throbbing of his hand when it rapped accidentally against his spear’s haft, Bifur tucked his arm to his side, bracing his weapon. Once again, he charged his foe. No matter how many times it took, Kimilzor had to die, and Bifur was going to see it done. 

_Where are you, Nori?_

OoOoOo

Aragorn blinked away the afterimage of a fiery cylinder from his eyes, heartache and furious disbelief growing as his sight cleared and he at last beheld the damage wrought. Where once a solid mass of men had stood now a smoking, glowing trench remained, one fueled by the embers of men’s bodies. Men, he realized with both righteous anger and pity, from both sides of the conflict. The Mouth spared not even his own.

 _Eru have mercy._ He kicked at a Weapon closing in on Elrohir, giving his foster brother time to and space to finish his current foe. Aragorn spun and jabbed Andúril through another Númenórean’s chest. Sivva and Golodir brought down another Weapon just behind Aragorn, and Aragorn glimpsed Rizhir execute a man attempting to sneak up on Sivva. Time and again, the king’s gaze returned to the Mouth as it cackled, grinned its macabre grin, and played with fire. 

“Legolas!” he shouted, hoping against hope his friend lived. 

“Here!”

“Where is Mithrandir?” he called over his shoulder. His blade flew, countering two Weapons’ attacks. He ducked low, hoping those near him did the same as a ball of lesser fire—not the Mouth’s work—catapulted overhead where Aragorn’s neck had been a split second before. A pair of screams followed its path. 

A glance revealed Golodir, Sivva, and Rizhir unhurt, but a man of Rohan burned. Companions shouted at the man to drop and roll, but with enemies pressing them all so hard, none had the freedom to run to the man’s assistance. A breath later, the very ground twenty feet away in another direction churned loudly. What followed, Aragorn couldn’t see, but more men shouted and howled in pain. 

Golodir growled. “Aragorn! We cannot stand toe to toe with these sorcere— _Sivva!”_

“This is stupid,” the spitfire barked over one shoulder. “I’m not waiting around for an Arcanist to target me!”

“Get back here,” Golodir commanded, sprinting after the girl. Three other Novices flew past Aragorn in pursuit, Yanar leading them. 

“Sivva!” Yanar yelled.

Chaos. Aragorn lost sight of the young ones and Golodir. When Aragorn next shouted for Legolas, his friend did not respond. Aragorn prayed the elf had been swept too far away to hear his call. He did not wish to consider that he might have lost another boon companion as he had Boromir. _Legolas, be safe._

“Kill the Arcanists!” Elladan shouted in Sindarin to those Dunedain in earshot. “Archers, kill the Arcanists!” 

Aragorn spared one last, bitter glance at the Mouth. His heart cried to charge across the distance and destroy his enemy, but the king knew it would be folly. That one, Mithrandir would have to deal with. The Host could not defeat the monster without him. Already, men’s bodies lay spent at the Mouth’s feet: three of Imrahil’s Swan Knights, one Guardsman from Gondor, and two Rangers--Corunir and Amarion. 

Amarion had been reduced to a desiccated husk before the Host’s eyes. What the Mouth had done to him, Aragorn was uncertain, but Aragorn harbored a sick suspicion that the creature had stolen every drop of moisture from the Ranger’s body while he yet lived. The Ranger’s screams continued to echo in Aragorn’s ears. 

No, Aragorn would not waste a single life more in a fruitless attempt to overcome the creature. When even arrows failed to reach him—and the proof of that was the pile of spent arrows forming a circle encompassing the Mouth’s position—what hope had anything else mortal man had in his arsenal? Everything lobbed at the Mouth slammed into a wall of nothing but air, useless. 

A dwarf again charged at the Mouth, the only soul to survive such attempts with his life intact. Aragorn knew him only from Gimli’s tales: Bifur. The ax lodged in the dwarf’s skull made identification easy. As a half dozen times before, the mouth chortled, waved a hand, and Bifur crashed into the men’s ranks and fell to the ground, dazed. 

It would not keep Bifur down. It hadn’t any of the previous times. No, the dwarf would gain his feet, and he would throw himself at Sauron’s lieutenant again. 

_Your death resides in that dwarf,_ Aragorn thought, wondering if the Mouth had any appreciation for his peril. If the Mouth faltered, if his attention drifted for a matter of seconds, Bifur would pounce. 

Aragorn turned his attention elsewhere. The Mouth was not his foe to defeat. He focused on those that were.

OoOoOo

Bofur had long since dumped his foul-smelling, blood-stained helmet in order to fight alongside the first Blacklock he stumbled across. He never did find Gimli, nor had he located any of his family. ‘Twas like attempting to locate a handful of acorns in a mountain-sized mound o’ walnuts. In a word, impossible, but that sure didn’t prevent his fool self from continuing to try.

 _Mahal, Bifur. What trouble have ya gotten yourself into?_ Bofur knew his cousin. He knew the fury Bifur felt for all that had been done to Bofur, himself, and (more pressing) Saldís. Mangled hands or not, Bofur’s cousin would lose his temper at some point.

And Bofur wasn’t there. He cursed under his breath as he slammed his orc-forged excuse of a sword into the path of any scimitar coming his way or that of his new partner, Dolgin’s. Truly, the twain of them were harried from all sides. It was all a dwarf could do to keep his belly intact (as he much preferred it, thank ye very much) and his head attached to his neck. 

No wonder then that when Nori flashed into view, Bofur blinked. What had his friend’s attention, Bofur wasn’t sure, but Nori careened by, helmet-less, without an ounce o’ care for his hide. Nori’s daggers slashed only when absolutely necessary, and then Nori continued on. In three blinks, mayhap four, Nori vanished within a clump of combating foes. 

_That…is not a good sign, I’m not thinking_. Nori looked in a mighty hurry, so no, not a good sign. “Dolgin!”

“Aye?” the Blacklock tossed over his shoulder with a grunt. 

“Fancy a change of scenery?”

OoOoOo

Yanar sprinted after Sivva, fuming but grimly acknowledging that the girl was right. The Arcanists would tip the scales, ensuring defeat for Yanar’s king and all of Middle Earth. As much as he hated to admit it, she was doing what all of the Novices had been trained to do: find and eradicate the biggest threats.

With each step taken closer to the Mouth, Yanar felt the weight of hopelessness he’d experienced under the Black Breath return. It was all he could do to force one foot before the other, to keep moving and believing it would all be worth it when victory was theirs. (He had to believe that was possible.)

The Ranger Golodir cursed and attempted to gain on Sivva, but in the close quarters, Sivva’s smaller stature granted her an ease in darting around combatants that Golodir and Yanar lacked. She slipped among warriors from both sides, stabbing Númenóreans as she passed but not pausing to ensure it was a lethal strike. No, that she left for others fighting her victims, and the men of Gondor and Rohan were all too happy to oblige. 

Yanar found himself caught in one fight after another until he lost all sight of Sivva. The only one not entangled as he was? Rizhir. Yanar noted that the elfin boy was nowhere to be seen and breathed a sigh of relief. 

The Ranger, when Yanar glimpsed him, bore an expression one would expect to see on a man gutted. Yanar felt a touch of pity for the man. Golodir might have seen Sivva in action, but he likely had no idea what the girl was truly capable of. She and Rizhir both. If they were together, if they managed to remain undetected, Arcanists were going to die. 

Yanar’s lips twitched minutely. He slew a Weapon, one of three attempting to take down a Blacklock. Then, he dropped to his heels long enough for one of the dwarves’ lizards to whip its tail through the air at waist-level, felling the other two. As soon as it had passed, Yanar was on his feet and ensuring one of the fallen Weapons did not recover. The Blacklock’s ax took care of the other. 

“Obliged,” the dwarf grunted. 

Yanar cocked an eyebrow, lips curling up on one side. What was it Ib-Saldís had said? Oh, yes. “At your service.”

OoOoOo

Kimilzor had only a split-second warning. A splotch of white teased the corner of one eye, then an ivory staff whipped towards his skull fast enough that it whistled. He smirked. His wall of hardened air would prevent—

Kimilzor’s flames dissipated, his concentration scattered, and he ducked wildly. The staff cut through his shield as if it was butter, destroying it altogether. _Wizard,_ a part of him belatedly shrilled. 

As if the tardy warning did Kimilzor any good. Snarling, Kimilzor blasted the wretch with a man-sized cyclone of screaming wind and dodged again as the stave returned for second attempt. Kimilzor cursed as his wind hit the wizard full in the face, setting the old man’s long beard to flying, but then it died. The fireball Kimilzor lobbed next met the same fate, fizzling before it could do any damage. 

_Infernal Valar and their accursed wizards,_ he spat. Always, they interfered. Always, they meddled where they aught not.

When next the wizard’s white staff arced towards him, Kimilzor met it with a scimitar. At the same time, he struck with earth, opening up a pit beneath the wizard’s feet. 

Gandalf the White tottered but recovered with an agile twist and leap. Then, it was dodge, duck and move as the wizard harried him with an elf’s speed and dexterity. 

_By the Pit!_

The pesky dwarf chose that moment to again try his luck. Kimilzor’s temper snapped. The Arcanist walloped the wizard with air followed by fire, hoping to give himself a few seconds of space. Then, he summoned dirt, drawing and accumulating it from afar. _Come,_ he willed it. _Come to me._

It rushed across the space between them, accumulating more mass as it traveled until it more resembled a brown wave ready to crash upon the shore than earth. By the time it neared the vicinity, it loomed some thirty feet tall and had flattened scores of men. 

_Goodbye, dwarf._ Kimilzor’s patience was at an end. It was past time to bury the troublesome runt. It was not the vengeance Kimilzor had wanted, but it would suffice...and perhaps he could summon the dwarf’s body from the earth later, before Akhora’s eyes. 

So consumed was Kimilzor with earth, wizard and revenge that he failed to notice the auburn-haired runt sneaking up from behind until a dagger skidded across Kimilzor’s armor diagonally until it chanced upon the gap beneath Kimilzor’s armpit. There, it bit deep.

Kimilzor bellowed. 

Time slowed as too much happened at once. The dwarf bit out, “That’s for my niece, ye thrice-cursed warg’s arse,” a split-second before Kimilzor’s dual hammers of flame and air smacked the dwarf in the chest and catapulted him over men’s heads. The dwarf tumbled through the air for a hundred yards, burning and yelling, before he dropped and vanished from view. 

With Kimilzor’s attention diverted, the carefully constructed wall of dirt crashed down prematurely. Instead of burying Akhora’s precious dwarf under a satisfying mountain of dirt, it crashed down a half dozen paces away. It buried a score of Kimilzor’s own Arcanists—Kimilzor howled in rage—before spreading outward like a flood of dirt in all directions. Bifur was swept away by the tide, half-buried, but it _wasn’t good enough._ Not nearly! 

Kimilzor’s teeth gnashed with absolute fury. 

The White Wizard slammed his staff down with a boom and a flash of unforgiving light. Kimilzor rocked from the percussion and stumbled back a handful of steps, his rage climbing higher to witness an entire rank of Weapons topple to the ground in unison. 

_“Nori!”_ he heard from behind. Kimilzor repaid the wizard by ramming an entire segment of Swan Knights with a blast of air, knocking each and every one of them off their feet. 

Only then did he whip around to find another familiar dwarf— _Ah yes, Bofur,_ a part of him suddenly purred—rushing at him with a sword held high. Behind the runt, another, dark-complected fellow followed. That one, Kimilzor removed with another gust of wind.

Bofur, Kimilzor allowed to charge on. 

His lips spread in a toothy smile. _That’s right. Come to me, foolish dwarf._ Akhora cared about this one too…didn’t she?

OoOoOo

Saldís crawled.

‘Twas all she could do. Instead of rushing to her adâd’s side, she was reduced to clawing her way along the ground. She dragged her body through a tangled forest of iron shod feet while clashing blades and spilling blood formed a rainy canopy overhead. Tripping feet and falling bodies and limbs battered her mercilessly. Though she accumulated bruises and scrapes aplenty, there was naught she could do. Her legs would no longer support her. 

Each painstaking shuffle towards Kimilzor was nothing short of torture. Why? _Why?_ ‘Twas as if she crawled towards the Eye itself, and her body quaked under the endless assault. A part of her screamed to stop, to turn away, to _by Mahal_ end the pain. 

_Never._ She had to reach Adâd. She had to stop him.

Tears leaked from her eyes. She gasped and sobbed with pain, but she refused to be defeated. She would find Adâd, and she would by Durin ensure his safety. If one of them was going to die upon this battlefield, it would be her and not him. Never him. 

A pair of iron boots stomped across the top of her, and she collapsed with a moan. A second set of feet followed, lighter, and a lyrical voice seemed to lift with shock before asking after her welfare. 

She could have been wrong. ‘Twas difficult to discern anything past the growing screams of her body. She forced herself onward. She’d been tramped before. Likely she’d be pounded into the ground again. 

Blood trickled from her mouth, the product of an unintended blow courtesy of a Gondorian shield. It only added fresh blood to the already vile taste saturating her mouth. Her head felt stuffed with ceaselessly flaring, lightning-like sparks of pain so intense she feared her skull sported dozens of fine fractures upon its surface. 

At long, long last, there was a break in the seething mass of humanity. Through eyes struggling to focus, she located Kimilzor and watched, body rattling with bone-deep shakes, as an old man in white battled her greatest enemy. She moaned, eyesight dimming alarmingly, each time Kimilzor unleashed his sorcery, for with every occurrence, consciousness grew chancy and her head screamed. 

_By Mahal._ It was killing her. Surely the unbelievable tearing, shredding sensation ripping through her brain could not be benign. The fingers of her left hand dug into the dirt, closing around a fistful as if by that grip she could hold on to both consciousness and lucidity. 

She was witness to Nori’s attack, _(No, Nori. Run. Run!)_ , but curse her body, it wouldn’t move, the pain shackling it too strong. Tears coursed down her cheeks. 

She saw Bifur _(Nay! Adâd!)_ half-drowned beneath Kimilzor’s avalanche of dirt. He was swept away. At times, only adâd’s boots poked out from the choppy earthen sea, at other times an arm or the crown of his head. Adâd fought for every breath, and she found herself breathing only when he could. Instinctively. Helplessly. 

She saw her uncle Nori flung, burning, over the heads of men until he vanished from her sight, _(No,_ her heart howled, breaking), and she heard Bofur yell Nori’s name. Her zany uncle (“Eh, your _favorite_ uncle, mind,” she once again heard in Bofur’s teasing voice) morphed into a deadly warrior, his face contorting. He charged at Kimilzor, roaring, only to have his weapon ripped from his hand by an invisible force. Bofur was grabbed by the neck and lifted until his feet left the ground.

He writhed, but his arms never lifted to fight Kimilzor’s hold. They couldn’t. She read in his fury and frustration the truth of the tale. Kimilzor had Bofur pinned just as had been done to Saldís in the Isenmouthe.

Kimilzor smiled that fey smile. The old man in white chanted something, but Kimilzor blasted the…Wizard?…with air, wind, fire and water, knocking the man onto his back. 

Nay.

He’d kill Bofur. The knowledge spread like icicles through her belly, their sharp edges spearing through every obstacle in their path. 

No. Not Bofur, too. Adâd and Nori might— _STOP!_ Saldís murdered the thought before it finished. They weren’t dead, and Bofur wouldn’t die, either. By _Mahal,_ he wouldn’t. 

She clawed her way forward. 

The pain ruling her exploded to new, terrible heights. Her mind gonged, unable to begin to comprehend what it was experiencing. Her eyesight dimmed alarmingly, but still, she dragged herself forward. _Not Bofur._ Not her uncle. Not Adâd’s defender, his help and strength. 

The pain… There were no words. One knee inched forward, the act a feat of epic proportions as muscles locked rigid splintered, sloughing off glass shards that burned as they sliced her flesh to ribbons. She cried out, weeping, and forced the next knee forward. Bofur. He was a blurry shadow growing darker with each shuffle she managed. 

On and on, she trudged, until Bofur was all but swallowed up in a world going black. A roaring filled her ears, blotting out the sounds of battle. 

She. Would. Not. Fail. 

Forward. 

Forward.

She kept going. One eternity passed, then two.

Until at last, her fingertips brushed Kimilzor’s boots. She wrenched the dagger from its sheath at her back. _The femoral artery._ It was the only suitable target she could hope to reach. She had to be fast. She gripped the dagger tighter and...

But then, a touch ghosted across her forehead, a simple graze. Gentle, almost. _Kimilzor._

At his touch, her fiery torment erupted like Mount Doom. The dagger dropped from her fingers, and her spine bowed. Saldis screamed and screamed as the poison within her body engulfed her.

'Twas a mercy when the pain finally robbed her of consciousness.

OoOoOo

Kimilzor laughed, the furious dwarf dangling from his left hand. Oh, the runt was held aloft more by wind than Kimilzor’s strength, but it looked impressive, certain to cow any man foolish enough to try and interfere.

 _So._ His plans for Akhora and the fool runts had not been foiled after all. How wonderful. How charming. 

He flashed his toothy smile at the wizard, a smile that widened when Gandalf’s gaze flickered to Kimilzor’s poisoned offspring. Did the old man think he could intervene and save her? Why, shortly there would be little left to save. She was transitioning. After she’d lost consciousness, the skin of her face and arms had turned to alabaster, her lips a bruised blue. 

He cackled harder, snorting when the dwarf growled. Watching Akhora crawl on her knees had been a sight worth its weight in gold, a memory Kimilzor would cherish for decades to come. Watching her turn into a wraith would be…better.

Kimilzor’s scimitar flew up to clash with the White Wizard’s staff. Then with a twist, he forced the stave aside. A new certainty grew. Kimilzor and his army would win. If the old man was the best the Valar could come up with, Middle Earth would tremble before Kimilzor’s might.

Gandalf was a fearsome foe. In part. His magics were certainly a problem. But his body was fail as any man’s, and therein lay the undoing one Gandalf who’d been the Gray. 

Kimilzor chortled anew and glanced down to measure Akhora’s progress. Why, even when unconscious her body twitched with agony. A fitting state for her traitorous hide, and as he watched, he could almost—almost—see the poison from the Morgul blade frothing and devouring as it rushed through her veins with each pump of her laboring heart. 

It was such a pleasant sight, Kimilzor decided a bit of celebration was in order. As an overture, he thrust a wall of wind towards the Gondorians along his western flank, tossing Gondor's best about like fallen leaves. For his crescendo, he permitted thin pads of fire to kiss the fingertips he had wrapped around the dwarf’s throat. The music of the dwarf's screams were almost as sweet as Akhora's had been. Kimilzor then completed his spontaneous composition with a flourish--he summoned earthen snakes from the soil to snap at Gandalf’s heels, forcing the Wizard to dance for his pleasure. 

Gandalf snapped words in a booming voice, and the earthen serpents disintegrated. The Wizard glared, bushy brows low over his eyes.

Kimilzor chortled lowly. “You will fail this day, old man. Middle Earth will fall. Your upstart king will die, the Dunedain will be stamped out, and all will worship _me.”_

“Today, you will be sent to the same Pit as your Master,” the wizard growled. He held his staff in two hands diagonally before his body. “You and your people will be destroyed, relegated to the annals of a shameful and soon forgotten history.”

Gandalf’s gaze flickered again. Kimilzor’s grin grew. “Look upon her, old graybeard. She is but a taste of what will soon be. Do you sense it? Do you see the poison dragging her into Shadow? It’s close now,” he purred. “I give her a half hour, perhaps an hour at best, before she rises as my servant.” 

Kimilzor’s eyes returned to the dwarf and found the stunted creature satisfyingly horrified. “Shall I spare you the sight?” he cooed. “Very well.” 

The dwarf’s eyes flared with frantic denial, but Kimilzor was done playing with him. Summoning air, Kimilzor punted the dwarf, mimicking a kick as the dwarf was fired like a projectile from a catapult into Gondor’s piddling army. The dwarf’s cry of rage and frustration ended as it crashed down within the warring armies. 

Kimilzor wiggled fingers as if divesting them of grime, his sword held defensively as Gandalf the White glared at him. It was then when, unexpectedly, Akhora’s dear, dear adâd bellowed in fury. Filthy with dirt and grime, bloody and battered, the dwarf limped into view, murder burning within his eyes. 

Oh, this just got better and better. “Ah, just in time to watch the show,” Kimilzor told the dwarf. “Play nice, and I’ll let you watch your daughter rise imperishable as a creature of Shadow." His grin flashed. "I promise, it will be the last thing you see before you die.

The dwarf spat words in its barbaric language, limping faster. Did the fool truly think he could prevent this day’s outcome? 

Gandalf now, he was a dangerous nuisance. Before the White Wizard could intervene, Kimilzor summoned a thick wall of white-hot, swirling flames to circle himself and Akhora, locking everyone else out. Through the gaps, he focused on Gandalf. 

The dwarf could wait. Behind his fiery shields, Kimilzor was safe from the runt’s interference. 

But Gandalf… Kimilzor grinned, a new idea flashing through his mind.

OoOoOo

From dozens of yards away, Ciryan shoved his way past Gondorians and shouted in wordless denial as Kimilzor erected a flaming barricade, blocking help from reaching Ciryan’s sister. The Novice burst through the final lines of fighters, and stumbled to a halt on the edges of the small clearing around Kimilzor.

Ciryan danced on his feet, mind racing in frantic circles for a plan. A solution. _Something._

All the while, Kimilzor’s words rang in Ciryan’s ears. 

No. Not his sister. Ciryan wouldn’t let Kimilzor have her. He’d promised. Even if it meant killing her, Ciryan wouldn’t let Saldís become a wraith. 

He reached for a dagger and pinched its tip in preparation, sniffling angrily when tears fouled his vision. _I won’t let you down,_ he told her. Would she hate him when next they med in Mandos’s Halls, or thank him? _I’ll protect your adâd. I promise._ It was the least he could do for his sister.

By the Eye, this hurt. His chest burned worse than if he'd swallowed a hot coal. She was his family, and he was losing her. The future he’d envisioned… It would never happen.

Ciryan aimed his dagger. _I'm sorry._

Beside him, the white haired dwarf suddenly burst, “Nay! Bifur!”

OoOoOo

Gandalf struck, sending a barrage of spells at the Mouth, one after the next. All the while, he counted down Bifur’s steps, pity and compassion filling his chest.

The Mouth was a fool. Gandalf knew the dwarf. He’d traveled with him during Thorin’s quest to reclaim Erebor, and he knew nothing, _nothing_ , would stop Bifur from reaching his daughter.

He was a true son of Aulë, stubborn as all of Aulë’s children were, and tough and resilient as the mountains the dwarves loved. 

Gandalf kept Kimilzor’s attention on himself.

And waited.

OoOoOo

Bifur hobbled faster and faster with his right leg dragging behind him. His eyes were frozen, stuck upon the still, silent outline of his daughter. Though the half translucent, white-hot whirlwind Kimilzor had summoned obscured details, he saw enough for terror to claw its way into his chest.

She wasn’t moving. She _wasn’t moving._

 _Hang on, Gedûl. Adâd is coming._ But would he be in time? 

Lope, drag. Lope, drag. Lope, drag. He couldn’t be too late. It was not possible he would fail her again. Fear grabbed his throat in a grip so tight, he could scarce breathe. 

_Nay, Gedûl._ Nay.

Bifur’s leg screamed as he forced it to carry his weight, its protest adding to that of his broken hands. He refused to hear either. Naught mattered but the woman puddled at Kimilzor’s feet. Was she even breathing?

It couldn’t end this way. Not after all her struggles. Not after all her victories. _Fight, my Saldís. Don’t you be leaving us._

He closed in upon the fiery storm, urgency lashing him to go faster and faster. The heat wafting off the sorcerous barrier was incredible, hotter than the famed forges of Erebor. Bifur’s stolen armor, the haft of his spear, and the ax blade lodged in his skull all heated steadily with each step until they seared his flesh like brands. Hot air blasted him in the face, forcing him to view a world much distorted and wavering through slit eyes. Each inhalation scalded his lungs, and the wooden splits protecting Bifur’s hands began to smoke.

 _Ye’ll not have her._ Never, never, never would Bifur let Kimilzor and Shadow win. His daughter would not become a creature of darkness. 

He’d promised his lass. Even if it meant shattering his own heart by taking her life, he’d keep it. 

_Please,_ he begged brokenly. _Do not let it come to that._ Bifur knew he’d not survive such an act. He didn’t want to. 

Nay! Saldís had to live. She was supposed to wed Finnin and discover all the joys life had for her. She was supposed to guide her nadadith, protect her Novices. 

Not feed worms in a grave.

A low cry escaped him. The metal on his body adopted a low, orange glow, and his spear’s heat began to burn through the ties holding it in place. If’n Bifur didn’t strike anon, he’d not be able to. 

Nay. Bifur eked another ounce o’ speed out of his abused body. Ciryan shouted. Aye, and Dori, but Bifur had no attention to spare but for the motionless outline of his daughter. _Men lananubukhs menu, Nathith._

Right up to the cyclone o’ fire, he charged…and right through it. 

He burned.

By Durin’s mighty ax, he burned.

But he emerged. With a strangled roar, Bifur lunged forward. He thrust his spear with every scrap o' fury in him. This was for his Saldís. 

Bifur’s spear punched through armor, skin and bone until it burst free of Kimilzor’s chest once more, piercing the knave’s black heart. “Ye should never have touched my daughter,” he managed to growl in Khuzdul as the knave’s knees gave out, dropping Kimilzor on the ground. ‘Twas not a moment too soon, for the final tie binding Bifur’s spear to his arm snapped free, ripping the weapon off his arm and taking burnt, blackened flesh with it. 

Kimilzor was dead. (By Mahal, the monster had died too swiftly). The vaguely horrified, thoroughly shocked expression frozen upon the man’s face was a sight Bifur vowed to savor for the rest of his life. Such an ignominious end--to be stabbed in the back in such a cowardly fashion--was nothing less than Kimilzor deserved. 

The flaming tornado died. Bifur dropped to his rump next to his daughter. He reached for her, only then realizing his splints were both on fire. The skin of his hands, wrists and arms didn't look promising. Not at all. 

_‘Twas worth it,_ he thought fiercely. Every bit o’ pain, every broken bone and patch of roasted flesh, it was worth it and more. At long last, his Saldís and his family were avenged. 

She was safe... _if_ she could beat the foul poison flooding her veins, _if_ she could fight her way back to him and the warrior who loved her. 

From the periphery, Bifur saw Gandalf running towards him, his white robes fluttering. 

Bifur ignored his splints and pains to lean down and brush a kiss to his daughter’s forehead.


	68. Victory

Dori flew towards his family, feet barely touching ground. His ears rang with the cheers of men—men who had witnessed the Mouth die upon Bifur’s spear—but Dori felt no such triumph. The instant Kimilzor had fallen, taking his accursed flames with him, Dori had been in motion, he and Ciryan both. 

_Please,_ Dori gibbered in his heart of hearts. _Not Saldís and Bifur._ Not them too. Wasn’t losing his baby brother enough grief for one dwarf to bear? 

_Curse your rash beard, where **are** you, Nori?_

A sob escaped him, bursting free of all constraints. He dropped next to Bifur. Tharkûn fussed over Saldís, so Dori immediately attended to her adâd. What he discovered had Dori blanching. He’d seen roasted chickens adorning his dinner plate less charred. 

Bifur’s skin was a ghastly patchwork consisting of swelling, fiery pink burns and blisters next to crusty skin with blackened edges. Only tufts of Bifur’s hair, brows, and beard remained, stalwart survivors upon a field of devastation. Even as Dori watched, blisters cracked, weeping fluids like tears. Bifur shivered uncontrollably, agony shining in his eyes.

All this, Dori absorbed in a single glance. Flickering flames garnered instant action. Dori snatched up his dagger and sawed the ties holding Bifur’s splints into place, growling and moaning all the while. Once free, Dori hurled the burning splints away. 

“My Saldís,” Bifur rasped, the sound one of a mortal wound. Bifur bent over his daughter, ignoring the violent jerks of his body as he fearfully watched Saldís’s every breath.

Dori shot a glance at his niece. Ciryan was aiding Tharkûn to rotate their lass onto her back. A low cry escaped Dori at the bloodless hue to her skin. “Durin’s beard ,” he whispered. 

Tharkûn placed one palm across Saldís’s forehead and bowed his head, his lips spilling a litany of soft words Dori could not understand. Dori trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek, fear surging at how cold she was. Her lips were blue— _blue_ —and her breaths so labored, her face so contorted in pain, that a second spear of fear added itself to the first already lodged in Dori’s heart. 

_Please._ His watery gaze lifted to Tharkûn, and for a second, Dori’s mind returned to the Carrock when Tharkûn had treated Thorin as he now tended to Saldís. He’d saved Thorin that day. Dori had to trust Tharkûn would save Saldís, too. He returned to Bifur.

And moaned when he realized he’d overlooked an obvious and crucial detail. Why, that orc armor was cooking his friend! “Ye thrice-dipped fool,” Dori burst. Dori tugged Bifur upright, growling when the fool dwarf protested. He tore at the armor, hissing when the hot metal singed his fingers. 

Ciryan upended a water pouch over Bifur’s head and shoulders. The water sizzled and popped when it hit the armor, spitting angrily. Hot steam wafted upwards. 

Dori nodded absent thanks, his fingers smarting as he ripped apart the confounded ties holding Bifur’s armor in place. In two licks, Dori had the final piece of the wretched stuff off his friend. 

“Saldís?” Bifur managed, the syllables slow and thick. 

Dori turned a wary eye towards the war continuing around them. The wee clearing that had grown up around Kimilzor did not shrink, not yet, but Dori could not help but worry that in no time, the battle would march right over Wizard, Novice, Dori, and their charges. 

_Please,_ Dori prayed again. All he asked for was a wee space of time. Was that too much? 

“She’ll fight this,” Ciryan bit out. “She has to.”

Bifur reached out with a trembling, broken and burned hand, but Ciryan scowled and wrenched his arm out of range. ‘Twas as if a dam burst, and bitterness spewed from the boy’s lips. “Would you _stop?_ Stop hurting yourself! You and Saldís are just alike. She called me brother, but did she wait for me? Did she ask for my help?” The lad’s glare filled with accusation as it speared towards Bifur. “Did _you?_ We were right here, but did you even once ask for our aid?” 

The boy overrode Bifur when Dori’s friend tried to answer. “Don’t bother,” Ciryan spat. “I’m not stupid. It’s just words. We’re not _family.”_

_Mahal._ Beneath Ciryan’s outward anger, devastation leaked through. It only needed this. Dori longed to grab the boy into a hug, to explain a dwarf’s rashness where his progeny were concerned, but instead he blinked back tears and gingerly slapped out embers glowing like tiny stars upon the tattered remains of Bifur’s clothing. Bifur had to handle this.

The lad continued in a hiss, “It’s not fair. You can’t let a person care and then… Then…” A choked sound escaped the boy before he turned away, lips flat and jaw tight. 

After a short pause, Bifur whispered, _“Men gajamu,_ Ciryan. _Men gajamu.”_ (I’m sorry.)

Sorry for the damage done, for causing the lad to doubt, not for intervening to save Saldís. On that score, Dori was confident, and in this he agreed with his friend. Bifur had done what needed doing. 

But to a lad who’d lived his whole life without the shelter of family, Bifur and Saldís’s actions must have been terrifying. _Poor mite._

The boy scowled, eyes watery. It seemed he needed no translation to hear the regret in Bifur’s voice. After a second, he nodded jerkily. The matter was shelved, Dori deemed. At least for now. 

Bifur’s attention returned to his daughter. “Come back, Gedûl,” Bifur rasped, the words trembling in tandem with his body. “It’s over. You’re avenged, see? Kimilzor will ne’er threaten our family again.” 

A loud, choked cry suddenly escaped Bifur, startling Dori. Bifur’s wrecked hands fumbled near Saldis’s neck. What as the fool...? When Dori tried to stop him, Bifur shouldered him aside furiously, his focus never leaving…what? 

At last, the object spilled free. The pendant, Dori realized. 

“You promised,” Bifur said flatly, his voice continuing to shake. “You promised your cousin you would fight your way home. Don’t you dare go breaking yer vows now. You gave your word—to Bjartur, aye, and to Finnin too. Fight, Gedûl. _Fight.”_

The fit of anger vanished as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving Dori’s friend broken and weeping. “Don’t leave,” Bifur keened. “I canna lose you again. Don’t ask if o’ me. Please, Nathith. Please.” (Daughter)

Bifur broke down and sobbed, his shoulders quaking. The sight did violence to Dori’s composure, and sour tears clogged his throat. 

‘Twas almost a relief, then, when Erynor and Calenor skidded to a halt at Bifur’s side, their orc helmets missing and their swords slick with red blood. Upon spying the condition of their two friends, Calenor hissed. He dropped to his heels and gingerly circled Saldís’s wrist with the fingers of his left hand, just below Finnin’s bracelet. When the lad’s gaze lifted to Erynor, Dori saw him swallow. 

Erynor remained standing and watched their Wizard—with a wary eye on their surroundings—in terse stoicism. “Mithrandir?” 

The White Wizard blinked the blond-haired Brother into focus. His gaze sharpened and lit with recognition. “You are one of the Black Company.”

“We had that honor,” Erynor agreed in a tight voice. “She…” He gestured to Saldís weakly. “Our cousin. Is she…?”

Tharkûn’s demeanor turned urgent, commanding, as he included Calenor in his regard. “Fly. Both of you. If we are to see this woman spared, I need one of the sons of Elrond. They are almost certain to be fighting alongside your king.”

“She can be saved?” Dori burst, unable to hold back the words. By his side, Bifur’s head lifted, his expression dancing between hope and devastation.

Tharkûn directed a strained but compassionate smile Bifur’s way before informing Dori, “There is hope, Master Dori. Always, there is hope.”

“We’ll find them,” Erynor said. 

Calenor leaned over Saldís. “Help is coming, Cousin. Don’t give up.” With a last squeeze of her wrist, the dark-haired Brother jumped to his feet. 

Erynor reached for Bifur but paused, fingertips inches from Bifur’s shoulder. _Aye, and he’s just noticed the scope of it,_ Dori concluded. Erynor’s eyes widened, and he swallowed with difficulty. “You hold on too, Bifur,” he said. “Saldís needs you.”

Bifur’s nod was more of a pained jerk of the head, and tears leaked down his ruined cheeks. “I’ll not leave her,” he managed.

Erynor glanced at Calenor, then back at Bifur. “We’ll be back,” he promised. “And I swear, we’ll have help.”

The Brothers raced back into battle and disappeared in the seething mass of violence. Ciryan took up a defensive position between his sister and the nearest enemies, silent, his frame thrumming with strain. 

_Always, there is hope._ Through all his fear and rage, a speck of warmth ignited within Dori as he watched Ciryan. The lad had more reason to give up than any of them, yet he fought on and protected his namad. 

Dori bent over his niece and smoothed the hair off her face with one hand. For her ears alone, he whispered, “Now you listen to your Uncle Dori. You’re a Longbeard, and don’t you be forgetting it. You’re stubborn and brave and tough as any of us. Endure. Ye’ve an adâd and uncles who love you, lass, and what’s more, you now have a wee nadadith. Everyone needs a sibling, and yours is no different. Don’t you go abandoning him.” 

All the while, the question burning in the back of Dori’s mind flamed hotter: _Where are you, Nori?_

OoOoOo

Dís’s heart stopped when a diminutive lass materialized behind her current foe. The child— _Novice,_ her mind corrected—stabbed the Weapon in the lower thigh, then the Weapon next to him, and vanished in a flash of curly hair before either victim could react. Both men hissed curses and kicked backwards, but their undersized assailant was gone.

Within seconds, Dís and Vestin’s opponents slowed. Their breaths turned choppy, labored. 

_By Durin’s beard, could it be?_ Dís pressed her foe harder, harrying him and gaining more and more hits past his guard as his reflexes deteriorated. A second later, the two Weapons fell to the ground with foam-specked lips. They were dead ere they hit dirt. 

Poison. The wee ones were thinning the Númenórean ranks with poison. 

_Maker have mercy._ It was a chilling reminder of just what these young ones had been molded into, one that filled Dís with a sickly flavored sorrow. That _children_ should be brought to this… The Durin temper for which her line was famed ignited. By Mahal, she wished all six of Caeldor’s Lords were alive and lined up before her. In that moment, Dís could have slaughtered them bare-handed. 

_Who,_ a part of her railed, _will love such children? Who will guide and protect them?_ The answer was instant: _We will._ By Durin, if the men should prove frightened or ill equipped to deal with these angry and damaged children, Thorin’s Hall would take up the challenge. There, the wee warriors would be appreciated, not feared. There, the Novices would find understanding and patience, not distrustful whispers. Aye and who better to teach the children honor and loyalty than Aulë’s children? 

Dwalin would adore these young ones, for they were survivors. All of the Khazâd would. _All but Dain,_ a part of her interjected snidely. An unkind thought, and one swiftly withdrawn. Dain might yet surprise her. 

Vestin gaped at the poisoned Weapons for one long second, and beyond him Skirfar’s focus darted towards Dís. “The Novices,” she reminded them under her breath. “They fight on.” 

Aye, they fought on…in Black Númenórean garb. Dís spat a curse under her breath before roaring to the surviving Blacklocks, _“Therek ikhlit! M’imnu Gorim, therek ikhlit!”_ (Stand firm! In Gorim’s name, stand firm!) Keeping to the tongue of her people, she added, “Watch for the wee ones! They are among the enemy!”

This… This would turn the tide. Every instinct shouted it. All she and her fellows must do was hold. 

Dís’s lips quirked. _Saved by children. What think you of that, Nadad?_ Her grin widened. 

Thorin would be outraged. Horrified. 

Two minutes later, Dís spied a second Novice maneuvering through the battlefield, a lad this time. The dwarrowdam didn’t hesitate. If the Novices needed stealth and secrecy, Dís would ensure all eyes were kept off of him. 

The princess’s smile flashed again. ‘Twas time to play Gimli and spit death square in the face. 

Bellowing the Durin battle cry, Dís charged deeper into the enemy’s midst. Death-Bringer speared left, then slashed right. Dís’s boots kicked, and a time or two, her fist plowed its way into a hapless jaw. 

A final foray, this would be, a final dishing out of justice in the names of her sons and all the children slain or abused by Sauron and his monsters. With Vestin on one side of her and Skirfar beyond him, the three cut a wedge into the enemy’s lines. 

_Hurry, little ones._

OoOoOo

Erynor swung his sword like a scythe to clear Black Númenóreans from his path, his heart counting every spent minute with growing frustration. Saldís was fading. One didn’t need to have Mithrandir’s magics to know that. She needed help, but it seemed the world was determined to spit out every obstacle possible to keep that from happening. Erynor’s gaze flicked compulsively to where his king’s standard yet poked above the roiling mass of humanity. It never seemed to get closer.

His teeth gnashed together hard enough to ache. _Orc spit!_

How could a distance a _hobbit_ could lazily stroll across in two, maybe three minutes turn into an arduous journey spanning ten times that amount? It boggled the mind, and Erynor was in no mood to be boggled. Saldís was his cousin, too, and this was taking too Sauron-be-cursed long. 

_“Mibo orch!”_ he yelled, tempted to stamp his foot when yet another Númenórean got in his way. He parried the Weapon’s slash of the scimitar, kicked at the cretin’s kneecap, then stabbed him through the heart while the man dodged a blow from a nearby Swan Knight. 

Erynor saluted the knight, raced forward, then squawked and ducked as another scimitar tried its utmost to lob his head off. Calenor leaped over Erynor and engaged the Númenórean, saving Erynor’s life. _Again,_ a part of Erynor tacked on helpfully. 

Like he needed the reminder. 

Calenor rammed blades with the newcomer, forcing the Weapon to retreat a step. Erynor rotated his blade and jumped to his friend’s side. Together, the Brothers set about eviscerating the Weapon, their swords pushing the man’s defenses to the breaking point. When the man failed to block one of Calenor’s jabs, he died. 

“This is taking too long,” Erynor growled.

“No, really?” Calenor bit back with equal frustration. The two closed with another Númenórean, an Arcanist this time. ( _Oh, perfect,_ Erynor snarled privately.) “I hadn’t noticed.”

Erynor scowled, eyes narrowing. The Arcanist favored his left leg, and Erynor harassed the man on that side, forcing the Arcanist to use the leg more than he likely wanted. “Then pay attention,” he sassed his friend. “How many times do Berenor and I have to—” He had time to register the dagger that abruptly appeared in the Arcanist’s free hand, then it was flying towards his head. 

Erynor dropped to the dirt. “Why am _I_ always the target?” he demanded.

“Because you talk too much?” the Arcanist drawled. “Stand still, Gondorian. I promise, I’ll cure you of that flaw…and any need to hurry.”

Erynor surged upward and socked the man in the face. It was rash. It was stupid, but Erynor’s temper blew to be taunted by an enemy while Saldís’s life was piddling away. His fist hit in a satisfying _smack_ that did more damage to Erynor’s fist than the Arcanist’s jaw. (What was the guy made of?) 

Erynor shook life into his left hand, parried with the sword in his right, and danced backwards as the Arcanist took definite umbrage. Calenor, Erynor distantly noted, was fending off two Weapons that had joined the fray. 

Unexpectedly, the Arcanist jerked. A sharp metal point appeared in the center of his chest, and his mouth gaped. Then a shove dropped the corpse at Erynor’s feet, revealing a strapping, blond haired Novice sporting an impatient scowl. “You are so loud, I could have tracked you blindfolded.”

She turned and casually stabbed Calenor’s foes in the thighs, one, two. Both snarled. One spun around—Ulsa slit his throat—but the other fell to Calenor’s blade.

Calenor frowned. “Who’s th—?”

“Ulsa,” Erynor interrupted. “Got any more darts?”

Two more Númenóreans attacked them, and the three positioned themselves defensively. “Novice,” one of the Númenóreans spat. 

Erynor focused on that one. Word could not spread. He couldn’t permit— _Whoa._ Erynor dodged a downward swipe, jumped over a kick and blocked the scimitar as it returned for a second try. 

“A few,” Ulsa shouted to Erynor across Calenor’s torso. 

Erynor winced as his foe managed to slip a dirk past his defenses and gouge his bicep. “Kimilzor messed with the poison in Saldís’s body,” Erynor informed Ulsa. “We need to get to the king.” Calenor’s blade penetrated the first Weapon’s defenses, and the man went down. 

The other Weapon…collapsed, his lips speckled in foam. What? 

Ulsa straightened, her gaze cutting across to where Aragorn’s standard flew. “That one?” 

“Yes,” Erynor and Calenor affirmed in unison. “Aragorn and the sons of Elrond are the best healers we’ll find south of Lothlorien. Can you help us?”

“We can help you,” she said. “Give us ten seconds. We’ll clear a path.”

We? Before Erynor could ask, the girl vanished into the fighting. “How do they _do_ that?” he demanded as Númenóreans again closed in around them. 

He forgot his question when, like a row of child’s building blocks, Númenóreans toppled nine seconds later, opening a path. Erynor thought he caught sight of a few more of the Novices working up ahead. As he and Calenor ran down the gap, seven more Númenóreans fell and an additional span opened up. 

“I’m glad they’re on our side,” Calenor muttered.

Sixty seconds later, The Brothers reached their king. “Aragorn!” And a minute after that, they battled their way back to Saldís, Novices again aiding them, with Elladan at their side.

OoOoOo

Death spread through the battlefield on quick and silent feet, dozens of them. Hidden among the Black Númenórean ranks, Ib-Saldís’s Novices ghosted through their enemies, largely unseen and unheard until they struck.

By then, it was too late for their victims. Far too late. If the poison did not take them, it was only because a Gondorian blade ended the victim’s struggle first. 

None were better. Not the Arcanists, now stripped of their magics. Not the Weapons. No, the adult sons of Caeldor had not needed to maintain such skills, not so keenly as a Novice living under constant predation. 

The Black Númenóreans were deadly. They tore through the men’s forces with brutal efficiency. 

But so consumed with the visible foe were they, they had no time to watch for the greater peril, nor did it even occur to them that there was one. 

And so they died. One prick, one slice at a time, the mighty and corrupt sons of Numenor met their end.

Few Gondorians managed to catch sight of their benefactors before the Novices vanished once more into their enemy’s midst. King Eomer of Rohan was one of those. The horselord blinked as the Númenórean before him dropped, revealing a teenage boy with dark eyes framed by a black head scarf. Almost, the king struck, believing the teen an enemy. Almost. But something held his hand. 

The teen winked and saluted with his bloody dagger before disappearing within the chaotic battle once more. 

_Who…?_ The answer arrived on swift wings. _The Novices._ The young ones the Host had near foundered itself to save, the brave souls who had ventured into Mordor to rescue their commander and allies, they were here.

They lived. 

Against all logic, they had survived Sauron’s wrath.

“Rohirrim!” Eomer bellowed in the tongue of his people. His mind raced. He dared not mention Novices or turncoats—the enemy was certain to know the Rohirric tongue. So, a clue. “Aifward has arrived!” 

Aifward. An old tale, one not so common that a Númenórean spy was likely to have heard it, and even if one had, of what importance was a story about a young thane’s son who had led Ethengel’s children to safety during an attack that had almost destroyed the town centuries ago? 

But Eomer’s warriors would know it. They’d know what Eomer meant. 

Others took up the call. “Aifward! Aifward has arrived!”

“Watch for Aifward!”

The words sharpened resolves and goaded the Rohirrim to push themselves harder. If the Novices lived and fought beside the Host, the Rohirrim would ensure the enemy died faster to protect the young ones. 

And they did. As the Rohirrim fought on with new zeal, black-clad bodies fell in larger numbers. 

Many, however, died never having felt the bite of Rohirric steel.

OoOoOo

Fear ruled Golodir, a merciless taskmaster that whipped him into a frenzy of savagery. It hissed that every enemy he failed to slay now would be one more alive to threaten those Golodir would protect. Each to elude his blade was one more free to lift scimitar against Sivva and the other kids.

Golodir blocked a strike, flipped his blade to alter his grip, and thrust his sword sideways. It speared through the neck of a Númenórean to his right with his sight set on Kyvin. He then hooked his left foot around another Númenórean’s ankle in an attempt to swipe the man’s leg out from under him. Golodir’s sword swung high to clash with yet another blade while a third stabbed out of the crush of bodies towards Golodir’s chest.

Yanar’s blade blocked it. 

Golodir’s first victim dropped dead, his neck painted with his life’s blood. The second danced over the swipe of Golodir’s leg, keeping his feet. The third tried for another high strike, one Golodir again countered, while the fourth fell to Yanar’s serpent-swift thrusts. 

A dart zipped by Golodir’s cheek, and the Ranger jerked instinctively to the right. A harried glance brought relief: it had missed both Kyvin and Yanar, too. 

_By the Valar._ If the dart had not missed, Golodir would be dead or dying right now. Truly, luck alone saw him spared too many times to count. If not for that bit of fortune, his blade would have been removed from the battlefield long ere now…and he’d have failed the little ones. 

He could not fail a child again. He couldn’t. Ziphora’s death hung like a lodestone around his neck. He could not carry one more weight. He’d not survive it. _Live,_ he willed of his missing spitfire, keenly feeling the girl’s absence. _Live,_ he willed also of the elfin boy who’d chased after her. 

Gone. Both children had vanished so fast, Golodir had been left stunned. Finding them would take a miracle. Golodir’s heart felt paralyzed with terror, fearing the worst. To stumble upon their broken, lifeless bodies… No, he wouldn’t survive it. 

_Sivva, you brave, foolish girl. Where are you?_

She was a fighter. 

She was lethal.

But she was _thirteen,_ may Sauron and his minions be cursed to the deepest Pit. 

Yanar’s shoulder brushed Golodir’s as the Númenóreans pressed Golodir’s group hard. Kyvin fought on between Yanar and Golodir’s opposite shoulders, completing their small circle. The Ranger sensed intuitively when the dark, aristocratic-looking boy lurched backwards. Golodir stepped forward to give the Novice room, and Yanar moved with him. The three remained a unit, their defensive knot unbroken.

Golodir gritted his teeth as more foes added themselves to the ranks of opponents stacked against them. A blade slipped past Golodir’s guard, nicking Kyvin, and another dipped around Yanar, lancing Golodir in the side. Neither were fatal blows, but as injuries accumulated, Golodir’s certainty of encroaching ruin grew. Golodir, Kyvin and Yanar could not take down so many Númenóreans alone, and the tide of battle had pinched them off from the main body of defenders.

_Eru._ No. Golodir _could not_ let this happen. He took greater risks, placing his body in the path of blades meant for his young charges time and again. 

Until he stumbled. 

Until a blade thrust towards his gut. 

There was no blocking. Not in time. Not when his sword alone could halt the scimitar arcing towards the back of Yanar’s head. 

The world slowed, turning surreal. Golodir’s sword slammed into the arcing sword with all his strength, forbidding it access to Yanar. The Ranger tensed, anticipating the thrust that would gut him. 

It never came. 

Instead, the Númenóreans surrounding Golodir and the boys began to fall, their bodies convulsing. In a matter of heartbeats, a gap opened up, granting Golodir’s band a precious few seconds to catch their breaths. Four teenagers saluted Yanar with glistening blades and crinkling eyes. They clustered around the teen with marked relief. Behind them… 

Golodir stared, stunned. _It’s not possible. This cannot be._

But it was. Somehow, in the time he’d been consumed with defending himself, Yanar and Kyvin, the Black Númenórean army had been ravaged. There was no other word for it. Their numbers were less than half of what they’d been, and before his eyes, he saw more fall in numbers that should not have been possible. The Host was good, but most had not a Ranger’s skills. Even an army of Rangers would struggle to do this much damage in so short a span of time. 

“By the Valar,” he whispered. His gaze tugged as if drawn by magnets to the new arrivals, Novices Golodir knew without question had not been a part of the Host’s complement when the war had begun. 

Could it be? 

_It must._ The Novices who had been trapped in Mordor had survived…and joined the battle. “How?” he croaked, eyes on the devastation spreading throughout the battlefield. “How could you…?”

“Poison,” one said as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Poison?” Golodir repeated, horrified. _Eru._ He felt stupid. Of course the enemy would use poison. But if that was so, how had the Host not been utterly eradicated? He stared at the teen standing right before Yanar. “How are any of us still alive?” 

The kid blinked before lifting one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Before _they,”_ he said with a sneer at the nearest group of Númenóreans, “knew we’d betrayed them, we switched the poisons out.”

“You succeeded, then,” Yanar said. “I thought you must have.”

The four newcomers bobbed their heads in unison. “Easier than taking a Corsair’s purse,” a brunette girl said. “We replaced them with vials of colored water.”

The first teen took up the thread when she fell silent. “Unless any of ‘em thought to loot one of ours, they’re carrying nothing but diluted paprika and cayenne.”

_…diluted paprika…and…cayenne…_ The absurdity of it punched Golodir in the gut, forcing a laugh from him, one dripping of hysteria. He dragged one hand down his face and laughed again, mirth dotting the corners of his eyes.

Of all the ludicrous things. Middle Earth saved by paprika and cayenne. 

This day, if victory came, it would not be by the hand of men or dwarves. It would be at the hands of a bunch of children.

OoOoOo

Something had changed.

Aragorn had detected it first in the sudden fire that swept through the Rohirrim, a contagious blaze of courage and hope that had spread throughout the Host, displacing the grim determination that had previously characterized the Host’s efforts. What the source had been, Aragorn hadn’t known, but he’d sensed it. Like his men, he’d taken heart. 

Victory had suddenly seemed possible. 

Inexplicably.

Miraculously.

After Erynor and Calenor’s departure, the king wondered no more. Those of the Black Company to venture into Mordor had survived…and they’d brought the remaining Novices with them. 

_Eru._ Aragorn exchanged a short, incredulous glance with Elrohir as the two Brothers rushed off with Elladan in tow. A second later, both king and elf returned to the fight, but Aragorn glimpsed his black-haired foster brother surreptitiously scanning for signs of the teens all the while. 

“They’re in full Black Númenórean gear,” Erynor had murmured in Sindarin as he’d hastily reported to his king. “Saldís told them not to take big risks. They’ll be slinking among the enemy, executing those they can. Thannor and Anuon might be doing the same. I’m not sure. I haven’t seen them since Udûn.” Erynor’s face had been full of regret and frustration as he’d confided to Aragorn, “My lord, we had no choice. We saw the battle from Durthang’s heights. We knew you needed more men.”

Aragorn had not blamed his Rangers for their decision. That act—and the teens’ brave and selfless willingness to fight for a people they’d never met—might be all that saved the Host and Middle Earth. 

But by Eru. Children. On a battlefield. 

_They have trained for this,_ logic reminded him. Like Yanar, Ziphora, Sivva, Kyvin and Rizhir, these were no common teenagers but skilled and hardened warriors. Aragorn had to trust that they knew full well the risk in what they attempted.

That did not mean Aragorn would leave them to fight unaided. The teens’ task would be easier with help. The Host must press harder. They must hound the enemy until none had breath to spare to question the presence of smaller “Weapons” among them. 

“Aragorn!” 

At Gimli’s familiar call, the king darted a short glance to his left. “Gimli,” he called back. “Is your ax ready for more action?” 

“Does an elf have pointy ears?” his friend chortled back at full volume. A Númenórean struck at Aragorn’s friend, but an arrow _thwapped_ into the man, felling him instantly. Gimli scowled at Legolas. “That one was mine,” he groused before demanding of Aragorn, “What’s the plan?”

To Legolas—what, Aragorn wondered distantly when he caught sight of him, had happened to the elf?—he shouted, switching to Sindarin, “The Novices within Mordor survived. They are here, hidden among the enemy and fighting on our behalf, _mellon nin._ Spread the word. Protect them as you may.”

The elf’s eyebrows winged upwards. He nodded shortly. “I shall inform Imrahil and the others.” In Westron, he said, “Hurry, Gimli. With me.”

The two plowed their way towards Imrahil and his Swan Knights. Aragorn’s lips quirked in a ghost of a grin. No less than three stolen Númenórean quivers jounced upon the elf’s back. 

Aragorn lifted his voice once more. “The enemy falters! Now is the time. Men of Gondor, of Rohan, in the name of Eru, _press forward!”_

OoOoOo

Nori had been hobbling around, left arm hugging his middle and right arm doing its utmost to keep hold of a sword he’d stripped from a fallen Gondorian. He was scorched and in considerable pain, but he would be thrice dipped in Bombur’s famed honey and mustard sauce before he abandoned his _umral._

 _If_ , he thought sourly, a dwarf could find him. 

Was the Mouth that way…or over there? Curse it, Nori couldn’t figure out which direction would lead him back to the misbegotten cur, and impatience was burning up what was left o’ his good nature. That the Mouth no longer helpfully lit up the world with his accursed fires only worsened the matter. 

_Urkhas kûd!_ ‘Twas enough to enable a dwarf to spitting nails through stone…if’n he had them.

Nori glared at his surroundings through eyes that stung, blearily watching the fighting concentrated ahead of him. The fighting had shifted, the only reason he’d kept his neck, and that was a fact. Nori was in poor condition to be fighting, not that fate cared. Aye, she’d been using the Black Company as her chamber pot again, and Nori was right tired of it. 

He searched the raging battle before him, glancing left and right for some sign to tell him which way to go. _Pick a direction,_ an inner voice snapped. _Any direction!_ Standing here like an indecisive maiden unable to decide between the blue bonnet or the yellow was doing no one a lick o’ good. 

‘Twas then, between one shuffled footstep and the next, that a groan reached him, one that sent prickles down his spine. Nori stopped in his tracks, eyes scouring the carpet of bodies littering the ground around him. When he spied a familiar brown-haired dwarf rocking back and forth in a vain attempt to get up, Nori’s heart stuttered. Bofur. What in Mahal’s name…?

He painfully loped his way to his friend, tripping over enemy and ally corpses. One glance was enough to tell Bofur’s tale, and a perverse touch of gallows humor claimed Nori’s tongue. With a pained grunt, he squatted next to his friend. “Took your turn with the Mouth, did you?” Nori asked blandly.

Bofur stopped his rocking with a gusty exhale, stared at the sky, and said in a hollow whisper, “Aye.” 

‘Twas a more subdued answer than Nori had expected. “That man is in serious need o’ killing.”

“Aye,” Bofur growled. Now there was the fire Nori had expected. Bofur tried to sit up again, but after a pained cry, he collapsed back onto the ground. Bofur punched the dirt with the back of one fist, tears briefly appearing in his eyes.

Nori’s nostrils flared to see the burns and cuts on Bofur’s body. And was that swelling Nori detected around Bofur’s throat? By _Durin,_ that piece o’ filth Kimilzor had much to answer for. 

He’d poisoned Nori’s niece, tortured his _umral_ and friend, tossed Nori and (he assumed) Bofur about like rubbish, and—curse it—the warg’s arse had _stolen Nori’s favorite dagger!_ Nay, Kimilzor hadn’t had a say in the matter, what with Nori’s dagger stuck in his back, but still! “Give me but one more chance at the wretch and I’ll jam my sword so far up his arse, the tip will be replacing his tongue, mark my words.” 

Bofur choked on a laugh. In a dark tone, “Aye, and I’ll help ya.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Nori grunted. “Now, let’s get you upright.”

Bofur’s next, “Aye,” was venomous enough to lift one of Nori’s eyebrows. 

_Aye, and as sure as a dwarf loves his ale, something’s happened more’n I know about,_ Nori concluded as he gingerly grabbed his friend beneath the armpits and hefted him to his feet. Bofur wobbled, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand on his own, a glint of what Nori could only label as murder in his eyes. 

What more had Kimilzor done? 

“He has Saldís,” Bofur abruptly stated, and chills skittered down Nori’s spine.

“What?” 

“She _crawled_ to him, Nori. To save _me._ Curse my beard, I couldn’t move. When he touched her, she screamed like nothing I ever want to hear again.” A sheen of anguished, furious tears pooled into Bofur’s eyes. “I couldn’t get free. I was right there, and all I could do was watch our lass suffer. I couldn’t…”

_Mahal._ Ice constricted around Nori’s gut and froze into something hard as granite. “Then let’s end this,” he said. He threw one arm around his friend and helped him to walk. They’d find that warg’s arse Kimilzor, and no matter the price, Nori and Bofur would see him dead. By Durin’s beard, they would.

But then, Nori frowned, confusion wrinkling his brow. “I must have hit my head harder than I thought.”

“Eh?” Bofur glanced his way, his face tight. 

“Is it just me, or are there a lot less Númenóreans than there were a few minutes ago?” 

Suddenly, the Gondorians roared and surged forward. They slammed into the Númenóreans…and refused to halt. _The final push,_ Nori thought with rising hope. And aye, there were less o’ the foul Númenóreans that Nori remembered seeing before he’d attacked the Mouth.

A bit of white was left in the men’s wake. What was…?

“Tharkûn,” Bofur breathed. “That’s our Wizard. Ciryan’s with him. Nori, and… _Bifur!”_

Bofur was off like a shot, and Nori right behind him. _Tharkûn._ And if Ciryan was there, so too would be their Saldís. Nori goaded his legs to pedal faster, heart in his throat.

OoOoOo

The Men of the West pressed forward, grimly, angrily. Word spread like wildfire—help had arrived—and as Black Númenórean numbers dwindled, the army that had terrified the men of Gondor and Rohan when they’d first heard of it…retreated. Foot by foot, the Host forced the Númenóreans backwards until the Black Gates once more shadowed them, until Udûn’s mouth loomed behind, its cliffs aglow from the lava that had flooded the entire valley.

The Númenóreans’ retreat halted. There was nowhere left for them to go. Cornered, they fought with bitter desperation. 

Rohirrim fell, as did Swan Knights and brave warriors from Dor-en-Ernil, Lossarnach, and Pelargir. It did nothing to deter the Host. Victory was in sight, and none would lose heart now. 

The evil sons of Numenor continued to die. Aragorn pushed against their lines, Gondor’s troops at his back. Eomer headed his Rohirrim four dozen yards away, and beyond him was Imrahil with his Swan Knight. On Aragorn’s opposite side, the surviving Blacklocks and their _gorrah_ took up position, all of them filthy with blood and grime. Lady Dís battled proudly at their helm with King Vestin at her side. 

The Host and dwarves whittled away Númenórean numbers, but not without terrible price. Men died. So many that Aragorn’s throat filled with acrid grief. They were his men, and by the Valar he would never forget their sacrifice. 

So it continued. 

Until only forty or so Númenóreans remained. 

Until suddenly, thirty of those—the smallest and thinnest of the number—openly turned on the rest. It was Aragorn’s only clue, one that drove a dagger of fear and grief into his heart. _“No!”_ he shouted and heard his denial echoed by Princess Dís. 

_The Novices!_

Aragorn tore towards them, his feet flying and heart pounding with absolute terror. He knew others raced with him, all with the same resolve. They would not lose those children. 

But in the end, he needn’t have feared. The teenagers slew their enemies like hardened warriors. Silently. Methodically. One took a wound to his…her?…shoulder, but his teammates overwhelmed the Númenórean responsible. At last, the final Númenórean fell. 

Aragorn’s steps slowed to a halt, and his men's did too. A couple folded over with hands on their knees as they tried to regain the breath fear had robbed them of. Silence, horrible in its uncertainty, descended. Eyes turned to Aragorn, looking for direction. 

The Novices tiredly tugged the scarves off their faces and dropped them in the dirt. Their eyes darted with trepidation from the Host to a teen with long black hair contained in a messy braid. The teen strode to their helm, and with a wave of his hand, he led them forward. With each step, he divested himself of his weaponry, his every nuance screaming uncertainty. Behind him, the other teenagers did likewise, some biting their lips, some staring the Host to scorn as if girding themselves for rejection. 

A shuffling sound, and Yanar materialized at Aragorn’s. The young man gasped, face paling upon sight of his teammates. “Thirty-four,” he said numbly. “They told me… I heard before…” Yanar swallowed. Eyes both appalled and sickened flicked upwards to Aragorn. “Forty-eight joined this fight. _Forty-eight.”_ The teen rubbed his forehead with the back of one grimy wrist, eyes watery. “That’s Gylmal leading them. You should know… He’s only fourteen.”

_Eru._ At fourteen, war was something Aragorn had only read about from the comfort of Elrond's library. Aragorn squeezed Yanar’s shoulder. 

Gylmal and his band stopped ten paces from Aragorn. Gylmal’s weight shifted from foot to foot. His expression abruptly cleared with some decision. With chin high, Gylmal began to kneel, his eyes locked with Aragorn’s.

“No,” Aragorn objected sharply, halting the boy. Gylmal’s eyes flared, startled, and a wave of deeper uneasiness swept through the teens. 

Stepping forward, Aragorn said more gently, “No, Gylmal.” His gaze lifted to include the other Novices. Emotions surged in his breast, a mashed up mixture of awe, pride, gratitude, and appreciation. No, these young ones would not bow to Aragorn this day. “Stand tall and proud, valiant sons of Numenor,” Aragorn said quietly. “Today, you have demonstrated a courage I could search the world over and not find again. You have suffered loss and abuse. You were betrayed and lied to from earliest childhood, yet here you stand. You threw off the chains of your slavery and fought for right when you had none to show you the way.”

Gylmal’s chin lifted, quivering. “Ib-Saldís showed us.” The other Novices nodded their agreement.

“A glimpse,” Aragorn corrected, taking another cautious step forward, leery of startling or in any way intimidating the young warriors. _Not,_ a part of him murmured, _that these Novices would ever scare so easily._ “I do not mean her any dishonor, for she has my highest regard and thanks. But you could easily have ignored or disbelieved her. You’d been trained to.” He sheathed Andruil. Then without a glance left or right, Aragorn’s fist found his heart. “Today, _I_ salute _you,_ my friends. Today, I honor you, for this day you alone saved Middle Earth from the Black Númenóreans.” 

Gylmal’s eyes widened, and the other teens’ too, as in a wave, the men of Rohan and Gondor, the dwarves of Durin and Gorim, thumped their fists to their chest in unanimous agreement. 

Then with a mighty roar, they cheered the Novices' victory.

OoOoOo

Finnur sprinted over the Slag Hills, triumph and battle lust rushing through his veins. He’d done it. By Durin’s iron beard, he’d _done it!_ His masterpiece was complete, and Finnur was gleefully ready to unleash his fire spitter on any who thought to threaten Finnur, his brother, his friends, and _by Mahal_ his homeland!

He charged up and down one powdery hill after another, his creation clutched in one tight fist, the nozzle flickering with a wee, steady flame…a flame he kept carefully away from the hills, mind. Not for the first time, he scowled at the waste spread before him with disgust. _Orcs._ Their lack of skill when it came to refining what they’d mined offended him to his Khazâd soul. The hills were not simply slag—they were chock full o’ swarf, metal slivers missed by orc miners.

A crime, this type of waste, and no two ways about it. 

But it had given Finnur an idea. Victory was at hand! All he needed was for the Host to retreat behind the hills once more, lure the orcs onto them, and Finnur’s spitter would ignite the hills like kindling. 

It would never have worked if the slag had been combed through by dwarves. 

He chortled wickedly, relishing the glorious sight to come. Aluminum, platinum, magnesium, they all burned beautifully, and Finnur was ready for a show.

So consumed with his fantasies of how events would play out was he that he was clearing the last hill before he realized all had gone silent. His head lifted. His eyes widened.

“Over?” he whispered. How could it be over? How could he have missed the _entire Durin-curse-it war?_

_Over?_

He stamped his foot and spewed forth a litany of curses as he unstrapped his invention from his back, intending to drop the wretched thing in the dirt… _away_ from the Slag Hills, thank ye very much. Little use igniting the hills would be now. 

He yanked on the contraption’s leather ties, fury climbing. If his brother and friends had fallen while he’d wasted time on the accursed spitter, he’d stomp it to smithereens. By Mahal, he would! And after that, he’d pull out his own beard, one fistful at a time. He would!

How could he have missed the entire battle? _How?_

‘Twas as the last tie was coming loose that he heard it, the sound of footsteps. Finnur’s chin lifted. His head panned right, and his eyes narrowed. _Orcs._ Why, a half dozen of the blighters were slinking away. 

Finnur’s hand tightened about the spitter’s nozel. _Not on my watch, yer not._

Cackling wildly, he gave chase. 

He’d not missed everything after all.

OoOoOo

The survivors of what would be known as the Battle of the Morannon dispersed at the command of their kings and lords. The wounded were assisted across the Slag Hills to be tended at the Host’s camp. The Blacklocks directed their attention to the Black Númenóreans, collecting each body and tossing it into Udûn’s burning throat, thereby ensuring none of the evil sons of Numenor escaped to become a problem for later generations to face. Nothing, not the Númenóreans’ apparel, weapons or poisons (had they any) were permitted to survive. All were destroyed to prevent them from finding their way into ignorant hands, for who knew what evil sorcery might have been worked on them?

Gwaihir the Windlord, King of the Eagles, collected Gandalf to scour the slopes of Mount Doom in search of any sign of the hobbits Frodo and Sam. 

Eomer and Imrahil directed the rest of the Host to spread out across the field and begin the arduous task of seeking any men or dwarves who yet clung to life among the corpses littering the ground. Orcs were executed, their throats slit open by a sharp blade. 

Meanwhile, triage was conducted by King Aragorn himself, aided by his Rangers. It was bloody, gruesome work, but Aragorn refused to rest so long as any of the brave souls who’d followed him to Mordor's very gates needed his attention. 

Golodir raced to Sivva when he spotted her alive and unhurt near her teammates. He forsook caution and gathered her close, his eyes brimming with tears. Sivva protested vehemently that she was not in need of any _coddling,_ but after making sure he understood that—as well as her teammates—she wrapped her arms around him and let herself be held. And if she cried into his neck, no one else but Golodir ever knew of it. 

Mablung, with Golodir’s assistance, collected the rest of the Novices and led them to the Host’s camp for much deserved food and rest. Yanar sank onto a pallet with a sense of peace tinted with grief. He’d lost some of his teammates, Alhez among them. But the Novices had done what they’d been trained to do. They’d fought tooth and nail and now a bright future lay ahead of them, one Ib-Saldís had done so much to offer them. She lived, he knew, and if her adâd and that elf had anything to say about it, she’d continue to do so. 

The Novices had not been made outcasts. King Aragorn himself had saluted them, and Yanar knew only relief at that show of respect. Aragorn, he trusted to the bottom of his soul. The king would never salute them one day and turn the Novices away the next. No, in the king and Saldís, the Novices had protectors. All would be well. Yanar knew it. 

Dís and her surviving Longbeards—including, the dwarrowdam noted with bafflement, a soot-covered Finnur—clustered around Elladan, watching while the elf murmured elvish words over their lass as he bathed her with athelas. All the while, Elladan directed Dori in ministering to Bifur’s wounds. 

After being told by Elladan that Saldís was aware of what occurred around her, Bofur had taken a tight hold of his niece’s hand. He and Nori spoke nonstop, their words full of encouragement and admonition. And Ciryan, Bofur had yanked to a seat at his side before throwing an arm around the lad. 

_They’ll live._ So said Dís’s heart. Against all odds, they would live. 

But so many, she thought with a sorrowful glance at the fields of Morannon, would not be returning home. Barhador, she thought with a pang, and Dár—that was one loss that would wound her for many a year to come. The aged hunter had been both confidant and friend. 

And what of her other dwarves? How fared Kai? Had Goira saved her love? Or had fate stolen him away in the end? And what of Medlinor? Ragan and Hlein with the youngest Novices? Were they safe?

Time alone would tell, but hope was a candle that burned bright in her breast. 

_Imagine that, Thorin,_ she directed to her big brother. _One act of kindness—Bifur’s in adopting our Saldís and yours in permitting it—changed the world for the better._ Her lips curled upwards. Somewhere, she imagined her nadad was pleased.


	69. Triumphal Return

_**Minas Tirith, Gondor  
13 April TA 3019** _

Finnin wrestled with his bedding, snarling under his breath and shivering with fever. 

Again.

He’d only just overheard that the survivors from the Battle of the Morannon were due back that morning, and he cursed up a streak that his healers had conspired to keep the news from him. If not for the loose lips of the two apprentices assigned to collect bedpans within the Men’s Ward of Gondor’s famed Houses of Healing this day, Finnin would have remained in ignorance. 

Aye, so he’d reopened his wound not once, not twice, but thrice in his attempts to escape his caretakers and rush to his lady’s side. And aye, he’d ruined the healers’ best work and gotten his wound reinfected. Twice. He’d even concede that his misadventures had resulted in him sprawled in a pool of his own blood in a garden (once) and a courtyard he thought led to the stables (twice). Each time, Tower Guards and healers had lugged his unconscious body back to his room and spent hours righting the damage he’d done. 

But that was no reason to keep a dwarf in the dark where his love was concerned! 

Fed up, he resorted to kicking the sheets off his sweaty body, his skin quivering uncontrollably. Based upon his fever and the foul odor emanating from his bandages, his latest infection had worsened overnight. Master Healer Duggan would not be pleased. Sure as sugar was sweet, Finnin would be hearing an earful over the matter. This was, Finnin admitted with ill grace, his own fault.

A soft breeze gently blew in through Finnin’s open window and tickled his skin. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. _Blooming, bloody orc spit!_ ‘Twas bright and sunny outside, a bonny spring day, but to his feverish body, it felt like the dead of winter. That Minas Tirith’s healers had stripped him of all but his underpinnings in a mistaken effort to deter Finnin from attempting to leave ere they deemed him fit meant he was left with nothing else to throw on.

Well, nothing but the sheet. 

_So mayhap this isn’t the wisest of ideas,_ an inner voice counseled. _Hmm?_

Finnin snarled at that bit of nonsense. His temper was beyond pricked. He was in no mood to be reasoned with. 

He painfully levered himself onto one elbow, his gouged middle flaming in protest. In his imagination, he could already hear Duggan’s reedy voice: “If you’ve torn those stitches again, I will chain you to the bed! Mark my words, Master Dwarf. I will shackle you hand and foot, and Lord Faramir will thank me!” 

Mayhap. Mayhap not. 

Finnin’s eyes narrowed to slits. Duggan would have to catch him first.

_Not a difficult task,_ that same irritating inner voice offered, _when one is as weak as a newborn kitten._

Cursed logic.

Finnin gritted his teeth and pushed upward to a seat. Instantly, a ripping sensation added itself to the fiery pain spreading across the area where Saldís had gutted him weeks before. Not, he supposed, a good sign. _I don’t care,_ he grumbled peevishly, knowing deep inside that he acted more like a petulant child than a grown warrior. 

Mahal knew Finnin couldn’t help himself. He was in a cold panic. A Morgul blade. Kimilzor had stabbed Finnin’s lady with a _Morgul blade._ Finnin’s heart had near died with fright when Yahzin had told him of it. Only the knowledge that Tharkûn had been at the battlefield—along with Pallando, Aragorn, and the sons of Elrond—had permitted Finnin’s heart to resume beating. According to Orodon, Saldís could not have asked for a more august assemblage to fight on her behalf. There was hope. 

“Trust me, Finnin,” Orodon had said after Duggan and his underlings had returned Finnin to his cot after his second failed escape attempt. It had been a doomed effort. Finnin could admit that now. But at the time, with nightmares full of his lass in his mind, all he could think of was reaching Saldís. He’d been consumed with images of the Host returning with her cold corpse…or bringing word that she now haunted Middle Earth as a wraith. 

“Aragorn will not fail to do everything in his power to save Saldís,” Orodon had said. “He is a formidable healer. You do her no favors harming yourself like this. Please. Don’t keep doing this.” 

Finnin had tried to believe. Mahal knew he had. Orodon would not lie or sugarcoat difficult truths. It was not Orodon’s way. 

Despite that, Finnin had succumbed to his fears four days later and the third fiasco had unfolded. Aye, though infection had set in after he’d torn open his belly during attempt number two, and though his wound oozed enough pus to scare the wits out of any sane dwarf, he’d managed to crawl his way out of the Men’s Ward, rip open his sutures a third time, and collapse just outside the tree-lined lane that meandered through the grounds of the Houses of Healing. 

So mayhap it was foolish to be thinking of a fourth such attempt. Mayhap.

_No mayhaps. It’s foolishness,_ that annoying voice countered. 

Alright. It was foolishness, but his spirit would not rest until Finnin clapped eyes on his Saldís. He had to see her for himself. 

Finnin’s eyes swept over his small broom closet of a room from beneath sweat dampened locks. He swiped his hair off his face and searched the chair tucked in the corner between the bed and window for his gear. As he’d expected, there was no sign of any of it, not his weapons, not the small satchel he’d had strapped to his hip, nothing. 

Finnin growled beneath his breath. A distant part of him grimly understood the healers’ reasoning. They did not understand what drove him. None of them had stared into eyes like a winter’s storm or kissed lips spicy sweet as a baker’s dream. Their duty was to coax their patient to wellness— _Drag him to it, rather,_ Finnin amended with flat lips, _willy-nilly_ —not to permit a patient to further injure himself. 

_Bâhzundushuh. My Dushin-Mizim._ Idiocy or not, he was going to her.

Finnin gingerly scooted forward on the bed until his toes brushed the marble floor. (Why, he grumbled to himself, did men make their beds to confoundedly tall?) With a grunt, he slid part way off the mattress. He eased more weight onto his shaking legs and finally stood tall, one hand clasped to the thick padding of bandages around his middle. That he felt warm wetness there wasn’t encouraging.

But…Saldís. Morgul blade. If it had not claimed her yet, if Aragorn and Tharkûn had not managed to rid her of the poison, there might still be time to hold her, to kiss her soft lips and give to her all the words of love a lass deserved to hear.

And he was just the dwarf to be giving them to her. Half naked, shaking like a newborn babe or not.

Aye, he could do this. For his love. This time, he would overcome his body’s limitations and reach his lady. So he believed.

Until his door banged open. There, framed in the aperture, stood an exasperated Orodon in a wide-legged stance with arms akimbo and looking mighty pirate-esque with his hair in a queue, tunic half buttoned, and boots to his knees. Behind the Ranger, Duggan’s face turned an angry red and the man’s apprentices gaped.

“You…You…” Duggan sputtered. Then in a deeper, growly voice, _“You.”_

Orodon clucked his tongue at Finnin in censure, one brow hiking upwards. “That’s it, my friend. I’ve been nice, but now the kid gloves are coming off.”

Finnin narrowed his eyes. His chin jutted out mulishly. “You intend to chain me?” 

Orodon’s second brow rose to join the first. “Oh no. Nothing so kind.” A wicked smile curved his lips. “I’m going to set your love’s Novices on you. _They’ll_ make sure you don’t leave this room until Duggan decrees you are fit enough to do so.”

Finnin’s eyes rounded as the floor was unexpectedly yanked from under his feet. What?

Orodon’s expression turned compassionate. “I swear, my friend, I will send Shilah, Bilal, and Hizzia to the gates. They will return with all haste as soon as they have word. But this ends. You cannot keep doing this to yourself. Saldís will skin me alive if she learns I let you out that door.”

If she lived. 

Not a minute later, he found himself flat on his back, Duggan fussing over half-torn stitches, and two of Saldís’s “teenaged monsters” (as he’d heard Berenor dub them), Thyndo and Harrid by name, standing guard near the entrance to his room. Their severe, vaguely superior smirks were chafing enough, but what really burned were the Novices’ words upon their arrival. 

“You’d think Ib-Saldís would choose a mate with a crumb of sense,” Thyndo had muttered to Harrid with much rolling of his eyes as they’d walked through the door. 

Harrid had snorted his opinion of that. “I never did notice people interested in mating as ever showing a lick of sense. But Saldís cares for ‘im, so I s’ppose we should make sure he stays in one piece.”

That said, they’d turned in unison to Finnin, matching determination upon their faces. _Oh Mahal, no._

Finnin knew when he was beaten.

OoOoOo

The air was ripe with anticipation. Yahzin rocked on her feet, her shoulder brushing her brother’s and her palms in constant motion, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing the white stone banister separating her from a lethal plummet to Minas Tirith’s fifth tier a hundred feet below. She and Berenor stood within a garden courtyard on the city’s sixth tier looking eastward, their vantage point not far from her brother’s temporary quarters within the Houses of Healing, quarters he had been grateful to escape for a short time with the healers’ permission.

“If you keep abusing the railing like that, you’re bound to crack it,” Yahzin’s other companion teased with a small, wolfish grin. Brown eyes twinkled up at her from within a triangular face. 

Merriadoc Brandybuck had been a shock. Maybe his blend of good humor, wit, bravery and loyalty was unique to hobbits—she’d never met a hobbit before, so how could she know?—but she suspected it was unique to Merry himself. She could be wrong, but she doubted it. Merry was special.

He’d become the Novices’ saving grace even before Yahzin’s party had arrived in the famed White City. Shilah, Bilal and Hizzia, who had reached Minas Tirith earlier along with the rest of Ranger Orodon’s group and their Novice prisoners, had regaled Yahzin with tales about the small male. Though consumed with wounds and worries of his own, not once had Merry failed to swoop in and defuse hostilities whenever they flared up between Yahzin’s teammates and the Gondorians.

And flare up they did. Tempers were uncertain, and neither group much trusted the other despite Lord Faramir’s best efforts to foster accord. Word had spread throughout Minas Tirith of the Novices’ past. Inevitable, Yahzin supposed, but it had caused the Gondorians to track the Novices with suspicious eyes each time they ventured out of the hastily repurposed building now serving as the Novices’ barracks near the Houses of Healing. If not for Merry, Yahzin wasn’t sure what she and her fellows would have done. 

The truth was that Yahzin and the other Novices didn’t have much trust left where the race of men was concerned, a sentiment that thankfully didn’t apply to Middle Earth’s other peoples. Dwarves had never harmed them, nor elves or hobbits. Yahzin knew she wasn’t the only soul to seek out Merry when she needed something. He genuinely wished to help, and coming from him, that help was easier to accept. 

She scrunched her nose at the hobbit, earning soft laughter. She’s never tire of that—Merry’s ready laughter. His exuberance and joy was outside her experience. 

With an uncertain smile, she glanced significantly over the railing. “I don’t know. If I angled it right, it would be a quicker trip down to the gates,” she jested gingerly, not quite at ease with banter.

Merry’s grin flashed, and Berenor barked in laughter before grimacing. “Don’t…” her brother gasped, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Unless you can sprout wings, I’d advise against that,” Merry offered. He nudged Yahzin gently with his elbow. “I’m sure finding you splattered all over the pavement is not the greeting your father would wish.” 

_If he survived._ The thought wiped the smile off of Yahzin’s face. Her gaze returned to the horizon. She nibbled on her lower lip. 

This waiting was torturous. Word had come the night before—the Host would arrive by late morning. The news had turned Minas Tirith unnaturally quiet. Everyone without pressing duties stood upon one terrace or another, scanning the eastern horizon in hushed silence. 

“I should make my way to the gates,” Yahzin whispered not for the first time. “I should be there to greet him. What if he’s upset that no one is there?” It wasn’t as if Berenor was in any condition to descend to the city’s main gates to meet their father. 

“Look,” Berenor said, pointing across the Pelennor Fields. “There they are. They’re coming.”

“Slowly,” Merry added, frowning. 

“They have wounded,” Berenor reminded in a tight voice. _Too many wounded,_ he didn’t need to utter. They all knew it was true.

Minas Tirith had been abuzz after runners had brought word of victory a week and a half before. That night, impromptu celebrations had sprung up all over the city, lifting a shroud of gloom that had blanketed its streets. There had been singing, dancing, and drunken revelry as people who had lived in dread of Mordor for a generation suddenly found themselves free of that fear. 

Yahzin had understood it, in part. If she’d been able to truly believe the danger to herself and the other Novices had passed, she’d have been tempted to at least join the dancing and singing. Drunkenness was another matter, for who in her right mind willingly dulled her wits and senses, thereby leaving herself a prime target for victimization? Drinking alcohol was…well…stupid. 

But in the light of the next morning, the air of joy was dashed by a bellyful of harsh revelations. As the revelers of the night before nursed aching heads—and the Novices watched them with barely concealed scorn—the city’s populace witnessed the assembling of a large train of healers and wagons. At Lord Faramir’s command, the convoy was sent to retrieve Mordor’s survivors, what there was of them. Rumor circulated like wildfire that casualties had been terribly high.

Yahzin had known that would be the case. But to understand it and to actually watch the large caravan depart, making it real, were two different things.

_Please,_ she begged. Yahzin didn’t know who it was she directed that to, not really, but the plea burbled up from her soul as she watched the slow moving caravan’s return. At the front of the long train rode a cluster of men upon war steeds, one of which held a banner aloft—the king’s banner, Yahzin assumed though the men were yet too distant for her to know for certain. Following behind were the returning wagons looking like nothing so much as a boxy, wooden row of ants, and beyond them marched the Host itself, though Yahzin could barely make out any details. 

She exhaled slowly, fingers white on the banister. Since the day the healers had departed, fear had nipped at her heels ruthlessly. In the dark hours of night as she’d mopped sweat from Berenor’s fever-damp forehead, she’d wept in terror. 

Thannor had promised her a family…and she couldn’t bear to have that dream torn from her now. 

“It’ll be okay, Cat,” Berenor murmured. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. “No matter what, it’ll be okay.”

No, it wouldn’t. She wanted her father. 

Like the dwarf Finnin and Novice Lohri, Berenor had fallen victim to infection shortly before they’d reached Minas Tirith. For Berenor, that had resulted in a fever that had left him trapped within graphic hallucinations for days, each of them (from what Yahzin could tell) featuring the Arcanists who had tortured her brother along with every atrocious thing they’d done to him. 

It had been terrifying. Berenor had been tormented, weeping and crying out, and there hadn’t been a single thing she could do but remain by his side. She’d been so _scared,_ and his fever so _high…_

She wanted her father. She’d needed him since Berenor had almost died of the infection. That her brother had recovered did nothing to quell the yawning need. 

“Go.”

At first, Yahzin didn’t register her brother’s soft command. She glanced up at him and found him absolutely serious. 

“Go,” he repeated. “You and Merry both. It will take Father and the other survivors hours to navigate Minas Tirith’s streets with those wagons.”

Yahzin glanced at Merry, and Merry glanced at Yahzin. 

“I’ll be fine,” Berenor assured. “I’m in sight of the Houses of Healing. I won’t budge from this spot, I promise. Go. Both of you.”

OoOoOo

Ciryan sat upon the back corner of the wagon’s frame, his legs bracketing his sister and his hands to her shoulders to prevent her from toppling over onto Bifur. Though the dwarf was healing—he no longer resembled a Varaig mummy for all the bandages he’d worn—his skin was still delicate and raw. Bifur would never voice a complaint at the pain Saldís leaning against him would cause, but Ciryan still wouldn’t let it happen. He’d promised his sister that he’d watch over her adâd. That was just what Ciryan was going to do.

Whether the dwarf liked it or not.

Ciryan’s gaze lifted. The white city gleamed in all her splendor, and for a moment, he took pride in knowing it was his kindred who had created this marvel. It was those of Numenor who had designed her, those of Numenor who had hauled white stone from quarries both near and far, and those of Numenor who had, stone by stone, constructed Minas Ithil, now Minas Tirith. 

Bifur, seated on a bed of hay to protect his body from the wagon’s shakes and shudders, turned to him and spoke words Ciryan could not understand. Ciryan looked away and swallowed thickly. Emotions choked him. 

He wrestled within himself, his gaze dipping to where his sister’s head rested against his thigh, her skin as pale as a sheet. Was she dying? Healing? Aragorn and the elves had purged her body of the poison, but instead of rousing, Saldís slept on, languishing. She swallowed the broths Dori and Bofur pressed upon her, she breathed steadily—if more shallowly than any of them were happy with—but her eyes never opened. Not once.

Ciryan could not escape the fear that she was dying despite all the king’s and elves’ efforts. It terrified him, for in his mind, everything was linked to her: a future, a family…hope. 

Bifur had been a constant presence at Ciryan’s side since the end of the battle at the Morannon, as had Dori, Bofur and Nori. They’d made it plain that they viewed him as a part of their odd family, but Ciryan couldn’t escape the belief that it was only because of Saldís. If she died, they’d vanish, and he’d be left alone. 

He didn’t want to be alone anymore.

The truth was that Ciryan was afraid. Terribly, soul-deep afraid to let someone in…and lose them…like he was losing his sister. 

Tears brimmed in his eyes, but he forced them back angrily and scowled at Bifur when the dwarf patted his knee with the wrist of one splinted and swaddled hand. Bifur’s eyes burned with compassion, and Ciryan’s temper conversely flared at it. He both wanted the dwarf to draw him near…and he wanted the dwarf to leave him alone. He growled in frustration. Ciryan would hurt less if the dwarf would stop poking at his ragged emotions. Wouldn’t he? 

But Bifur never relented. He watched over Saldís or Ciryan both like a hawk. Why, he’d even insisted Ciryan take another with him when he wanted to relieve himself, be it night or day—an infuriating development if ever there was one. Did the dwarf think Ciyran six years old? Did he believe Ciryan unable to protect himself?

Ciryan had roiled with resentment, but underneath, a warm feeling had been birthed. Bifur cared at least some. 

A gusty exhale was his only warning. To Ciryan’s disbelief, Bifur struggled to his knees. The patchwork mess of his skin bled of color as Bifur blanched in agony. 

“What are you…?” Ciryan began hotly.

Bifur scowled at him and muttered words that sounded like a threat…or promise. Ciryan wasn’t sure which. Bifur was in _pain,_ by the Eye. He had no business…

Bifur painstakingly hoisted himself to a seat beside Ciryan on the wagon’s rim, his chin set and daring Ciryan to argue—which Ciryan was _going_ to do. Ciryan glared bloody murder at the dwarf, nothing new these last two weeks, but instead of evoking a matching anger in Bifur, the opposite happened. Bifur rumbled something in his native tongue, his eyes filled with kindness. 

Ciryan’s throat squeezed shut as he again choked back tears. Anger flared, snapping and snarling like hot flames. Ciryan couldn’t control it. He was so confused and frustrated and…

Bifur hauled him into his arms and hugged him. 

Ciryan stiffened, stunned. What was the dwarf doing? Ciryan knew full well how much pain the dwarf was in, and contact would only make it worse. The stubborn, infuriating… He was hurting himself again! 

Ciryan began to struggle, but Bofur, walking beside their wagon, tossed him a casual, “Face it, lad. This is an argument yer bound to lose. Unless, o’ course, you’re willing to risk tearing what’s left of his skin.”

Ciryan went absolutely still. Bifur used the backs of his wrists to coax Ciryan’s head to his shoulder, then the dwarf hugged him tightly, squeezing until he almost robbed Ciryan of breath. 

Holding him the way Ciryan had secretly needed since the day he’d been ripped out of the Nursery by unkind hands. Not that Ciryan would admit it that aloud. Ever. 

It had to be agonizing. A distant corner of Ciryan’s mind registered that. Ciryan had been burned before, although not as extensively, and he’d seen firsthand the damage Kimilzor’s fires had done to Bifur’s flesh. Ciryan knew hugging him had to be excruciating. Instead of releasing him though, Bifur’s hold refused to ease. Bifur wasn’t going to let him go. 

Embarrassment flared to life. Uneasiness. He wasn’t a kid, and there were _witnesses._ Dori, Bofur, and Nori walked close by, but it wasn’t just them. The wagon itself was crammed full of injured men from both Rohan and Gondor. Ciryan’s cheeks burned, feeling the press of eyes upon him.

_“Inúdoyê,”_ Bifur whispered, caressing his hair with the back of his forearm. 

What did that mean? From over Bifur’s shoulder, Ciryan sought Bofur, and found the dwarf’s eyes wet with unshed tears. “It means ‘My son,’” the dwarf explained, his head craning back to look up at him. “For a dwarf, ye must claim a thing in our native tongue to make it so.”

_“Inúdoyê,”_ Bifur said as if agreeing. He permitted Ciryan to pull back a small space, and what Ciryan read upon Bifur’s face crumbled his defenses. _“Inúdoyê,”_ Bifur repeated. 

Bifur hugged him again, as tight as Ciryan needed. With his chapped, dry lips, Bifur kissed his temple. 

_For me._ This wasn’t show for Saldís. Bifur endured horrific pain to demonstrate… _He cares._ Conviction set in. _He cares._

Ciryan grabbed his father back, buried his face in his bandaged neck…and cried.

The audience no longer mattered.

OoOoOo

Bifur buried deep any outward betrayal of the hot agony sizzling along his nerves and held his new son. He’d intended to wait until they were settled in Minas Tirith before confronting the lad, but watching Ciryan battering himself, bouncing between fury and despair with such a lost expression on his face…

Bifur couldn’t restrain himself a second longer, nay he could not. He’d grabbed the lad and refused to let him go, and thank Mahal, it had cracked the walls the lad had erected around himself since the Battle of the Morannon. Finally. ‘Twas a long time coming, this, and Bifur could not help but feel relief. 

Much as his Saldís had been, this lad. Reserved and hostile, yet worried and overprotective at the same time. More’n once, the lad had snarled at Bifur for attempting to do more than Bifur likely should have. 

_You’d best wake soon, lass,_ he directed to his daughter. Bifur rejoiced to have some assurance Ciryan would not disappear on him if Saldís faded away, but it didn’t alter the fact that both needed her to complete their family. 

Bifur committed to holding his son as long as Ciryan needed holding. He didn’t budge when the wagon rolled over a patch of rocks, the violent rocking of the wagon rattling his bones hard enough that his broken hands throbbed, making his bed of straw look mighty appealing. He did not move when Ciryan’s hold on him grew tight enough to bruise. 

This was what was needed now. In this minute, his son needed him. 

His _son._ The joy o’ that blessing warmed his heart. For a bachelor who’d been certain he’d never have a child to speak of, Bifur felt wealthy indeed. He had two children now, and he couldn’t be prouder of them.

OoOoOo

Yahzin and Merry barreled down the ramp leading from Minas Tirith’s fifth tier to the fourth. “We shouldn’t have left him,” Merry puffed, his feet slapping against the white stone pathway. “We really shouldn’t.”

“I know,” Yahzin agreed. Upon reaching the base of the ramp, they doubled back to head east and north along the city’s curve, following the street stretching from one end of the fourth tier to the other. The gate to the next level was _of course_ on the extreme opposite end of the tier than the ramp from the fifth tier. 

For a person consumed by urgency, the city’s design was maddening. Who, Yahzin wished to know, had designed this place? She supposed that as a defensive measure, staggering the minor gates leading from tier to tier made sense, but it doubled the distance a person must travel if venturing higher or lower within the city. 

It took a full forty-five minutes at Merry’s top speed to reach the ramp descending to the city’s ground level. By then, both were rank with sweat and out of breath. 

Yahzin studied the scene below with a frown, her steps slowing as they neared their destination. The city’s massive black walls cast a long shadow over most of the courtyard inside the city’s ruined gates. A growing throng assembled there, most of it contained along the street’s edges by a score of patrolling city guards. 

Within the center of the archway leading to the Pelennor fields, Yahzin spotted a contingent of dignitaries in full regalia, Lord Faramir at their helm. Unlike the commoners, these waited in a pool of sunlight, uncrushed by the press of bodies hugging the street's sides. 

Merry and Yahzin frowned in unison, their steps heavier as they exited the ramp and walked towards the bailey. “I think we’re a bit late,” Merry commented. He shook his head as they added themselves to the rear of the crowd. “Well, this is no good.” Merry jumped up and down a few times, trying to see over much taller spectators. 

Yahzin glowered at the sea of dark Gondorian heads blocking their view, thoroughly put out. She and Merry would see nothing like this! She rose onto her toes, but it was no use. She was too short and the adults too big. Sour frustration settled like a noose around her neck. 

She directed her attention to their surroundings. Surely there was a better vantage point to be had. She and Merry were neither old nor infirm. Perhaps if they were careful, she and Merry could scale the roof of that stall over there…

Merry hissed, yanking on her sleeve. Only then did she hear it, the distinct clip-clop of approaching hooves. The low buzzing of whispered conversation ceased, leaving the bailey in silence, all but the clatter of hooves. It grew louder. Closer. 

A dozen riders passed beneath the stone archway and into the city. 

“Aragorn!” Merry cried. “He’s alive, and— _Look!”_ he shouted, the word almost lost as Minas Tirith’s populace erupted into deafening cheers. Yahzin glimpsed a tall man with dark hair and a noble carriage flanked by two elves and a man bearing the king’s standard on a long wooden pole. 

“Frodo and Sam!” Merry yanked on her sleeve more emphatically. He gasped and then shouted, _“Pippin!”_

That fast, her friend was off, pushing and squeezing his way through the press of humanity. Yahzin hung back, uncertain whether to follow for fear of intruding. In the end, she delayed too long. Merry vanished from view. 

Her gaze lifted to the hobbits riding double before three of the king’s companions, certain they must be Merry’s missing friends. One hobbit had hair like golden wheat, one black as night, and the last a mop of unruly brown curls. _Sam, Frodo, and Pippin,_ she labeled without doubt, for Merry had told her many tales of his friends. As she watched, Pippin’s expression brightened. A joyous smile broke out upon his face. He immediately jumped off his mount and dropped from Yahzin’s sight.

Yahzin could easily imagine the joyous greeting taking place. Merry had received his happy ending. 

Would she? 

She bobbed to her toes again, desperation climbing as she searched the face of each rider that followed the king into the city. More men passed through the city gates. 

_Please, Eru. Please…_ Her breath hitched. She’d found him. 

Thannor rode two dozen yards behind the king, his face creased with lines of exhaustion and his eyes intent as he slowly scoured the massive crowd gathered within the bailey. He looked worn and burdened as he searched for someone. 

_For us,_ she thought. _Me and Berenor._

If she shoved or elbowed people from her path, Yahzin didn’t later remember it. She tore past the king and his entourage, past Merry and his companions. She had eyes only for one, and she raced right for him. 

Thannor saw her coming. He leaped off his horse and opened his arms wide. Yahzin didn’t hesitate. She abandoned every ounce of reserve life had pounded into her and threw herself into her father’s arms. He hefted her off her feet in a strong embrace, murmuring words of relief she did not need to hear to understand. She felt his kiss brush her hairline, and she clutched him tighter. 

He was there. He’d _lived._ She’d never been so relieved. 

“Yahzin,” she barely heard over the continuing cheers of Gondor’s citizenry. The king’s procession came to a halt, and she sensed more than saw Thannor’s attention shift briefly. He left his horse to another and led Yahzin to the side of the road near the crowds. 

There, his hand smoothed down her hair. “You are well?” Thannor asked in a low roar. 

Yahzin nodded jerkily. She sniffled and tried to regain her composure. A failed effort. Yahzin threw her arms around him once more, squeezing tight. Her father’s arms instantly closed around her. 

It was as she was savoring the sensations of belonging and safety that the thundering cheers abruptly petered out. Yahzin withdrew from her father’s embrace, a frown forming on her lips. What was…? Her eyebrows winged upwards. The king sat his mount with an arm upraised in a wordless bid for attention. Yahzin leaned against her father, curious as to what the man wished to say.

“Berenor?” Thannor whispered.

Her lips curled. She was happy to say, “Recovering.”

Thannor grunted in satisfaction.

“My people!” the king cried. “Victory this day came at a high price. I ask you to make way for our wounded heroes. Clear the streets.” He and his entourage led by example, backing their horses to one side of the bailey. There, they took up position, watching the gates through which the rest of his train would come. 

Other voices took up the refrain, spreading it from one end of the bailey to another, and then up the ramp to the second tier. “Make a path!” “The wounded come!” More shouts sounded even more distantly as word spread.

Shortly after, the wagons rolled into the city pulled by powerful draft horses. The wagons creaked and rumbled into the bailey, one after the other, and a hush fell over the audience. In the bed of each were dozens of men mixed with a sprinkling of swarthy dwarves, all of them heavily bandaged and wan of face. “So many,” Yahzin whispered.

“Victory almost eluded us,” Thannor murmured. A handful of nearby Gondorians glanced his way, plainly catching his words. “It would not have come at all if not for the bravery of your fellow Novices, Daughter. You should be proud. _All_ of you.”

Yahzin’s head jerked up.

His eyes captured hers. “All of you,” he repeated. 

Yahzin swallowed. With difficulty, she returned to the train of wagons. The Houses of Healing, she thought, would struggle to billet so many inj—

All thoughts of the healers and the monumental task of tending to so many faded from mind, for there, in one of the last wagons to enter the city, was Yahzin’s cousin, Saldís. “Father?” she asked, alarmed.

“She lives,” he said. 

_She looks terrible._ The commanding woman with a will of iron looked more like a broken doll. Her face was bleached of color, and she rocked with the wagon’s movements bonelessly, held only in place by Ciryan and a heavily bandaged dwarf—Bifur, Yahzin knew from the ax lodged in the dwarf’s skull. 

“The poison?” Yahzin asked in a tight voice.

“Driven out by elvish healing,” Thannor murmured. He lifted a lock of Yahzin’s hair and smoothed it behind her ear. “According to Elladan and the king, it caused extensive damage. She rests. She does not deteriorate or improve. She simply…sleeps.”

As the wagon passed her location, Yahzin saw three dwarves walking in its wake, one of gray hair, one of auburn, and one of brown. “Don’t give up on her,” Thannor said. “She’ll wake.”

“How do you know?” Yahzin half accused. What would the Novices do without Ib-Saldís? Yahzin trusted her father and brother, but Saldís was her commander. Yahzin and the Novices answered to Saldís first. Saldís _understood._ They needed her.

“She’s a daughter of dwarves,” Thannor responded with a crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “So Dori reminded me each time I inquired after my cousin during the trip here. Saldís has survived deprivation, torture, and a raging sea. She won’t surrender now.” Then more softly. “Do you remember the rune?”

Yahzin dredged up the hazy memory. She seemed to recall… “Endurance,” she said at last.

“Endurance,” Thannor agreed. “A Power marked her. I do not believe it will abandon her now. Have faith.”

Faith. Yahzin wasn’t certain that was an item she possessed, but she vowed to try to believe anyway. She was about to say as much when Aragorn spoke again.

“Men of Gondor, of Rohan! Today is a day for celebration. The threat of Mordor is indeed no more. Barad-dur is fallen, the Eye destroyed and the Dark Lord Sauron vanquished.” Cheers erupted, but the king was not finished. “The One Ring has been unmade thanks to the hobbits you see before you. Victory is won, but at great cost. I ask you to honor the souls who rode out to face the enemy, those who risked life and limb to orcish swords and fell sorceries in order to keep our lands safe.” Then in a bellow, the king announced, “I present to you your champions!” 

There was a brief moment of silence followed by the sounding of trumpets. Immediately, there followed the heavy tread of scores of armored feet. Chills raced up and down Yahzin’s skin as rank by rank, the first group of soldiers marched into view. 

The audience roared, and Yahzin found herself shouting, too. Ahead of the first troop rode two men on sleek destriers, both wearing plumed helmets and sea-blue armor stamped with the image of a swan. Behind marched some three hundred men on foot, each proud of visage with chins held high, but Yahzin was certain she read grief and remembered horror in the lines upon their faces. 

Thannor leaned close to say into Yahzin’s ear, “Prince Imrahil and Elphir of Dol Amroth with their Swan Knights. Eight hundred of them rode out at the king’s behest.”

Eight hundred? Another wash of chills prickled across her skin. A scant three hundred remained. Yahzin leaned heavier against her father. What did that mean for Yahzin’s teammates? What about Erynor and Calenor? She watched, dread filling her as the Swan Knights made their way past the king and through Minas Tirith’s streets and on up to the city’s second tier where they vanished from sight. Yahzin could hear the distant sound of cheers erupt in that direction. 

Men bearing another standard entered the city next. Again, the bailey filled with thunderous accolades, and one of the ladies with Lord Faramir broke apart to run to the man leading this next group. “King Eomer,” Thannor informed Yahzin before she could ask. “And the Riders of Rohan.” 

She nodded to show she’d heard him. “Should we go to Berenor?” Yahzin shouted to her father, only see his head shake in denial. Why…?

Her father’s lips curved in a ghost of a smile. “Wait,” he yelled in return. “You need to be here.”

Why?

By his expression, he wasn’t going to say. She switched subjects back to the Rohirrim. Gesturing to them, she shouted, “How many…?” Yahzin shouted just as the lady in white reached King Eomer. The blond king swooped her into his arms before spinning her around.

“Twelve hundred Rohirrim survived the Battle of Pelennor Fields,” Thannor said. “Every one of them volunteered to join the march on Mordor.” Thannor’s eyes dipped to hers. “Four hundred and seventy-seven remain.”

Yahzin swallowed, a cold knot forming in her belly. When her father’s hand closed around hers, she squeezed back tightly. How close had she come to losing Thannor? The Host… The Host had been decimated. 

The Rohirrim passed by, their king once again mounted with his sister seated behind him. His men came in his wake, some afoot, some astride their famed steeds, and behind them, other troops marched into the city in turn, and each was honored with loud cheers. 

Yahzin applauded with the Gondorians. If not for these men, what would the world have come to? Rank after rank filed by, men of Lossarnach, Dor-en-Ernil, Pelargir, Lamedon, and Lebennin. Thannor identified each in turn, sharing with her the losses each group had taken.

The entrance of King Vestin—announced by Aragorn—and his small band of dwarves caused a stir, and when informed of the brave sacrifice the dwarves had made and the extent of their losses, more than one soul bowed to the survivors. Yahzin caught the eye of the female dwarf, she of paler skin than her companions, and lifted a fist to her chest. This was Lady Dís, the one who held Saldís’s fealty. Yahzin was certain of it, and while the men filling the bailey might not be aware of it, Yahzin was—if not for Lady Dís, Saldís would not have lived to save Yahzin and her teammates. Yahzin was determined to show the princess the honor she was due. 

Yahzin wasn’t the only one. As Dís rode past on her fearsome lizard, one of only eight of the creatures to enter Minas Tirith, Yahzin saw Bilal and Nahir extricate themselves from the crush of humanity to salute the lady. Not far beyond them, Leron, Lehk, Ovandor, Juriah, and Ixia did the same. 

Dís acknowledged each with a dip of the head and a salute. The emotions that filled Yahzin in the moment… She didn’t have words for them. A hot rush of pride, of honor and humble gratitude. Pleasure to know Dís held the Novices in esteem.

Yahzin was not the only Novice who’d voice the desire to meet Dís, and now, Yahzin had confidence the lady would welcome them. Yahzin followed Dís’s progress through the city streets as long as she could, her head craning to an awkward angle until the lady’s lizard stepped from the ramp up to the Soldier’s Tier. 

“I’ll introduce you,” Thannor murmured in Yahzin’s ear with heavy amusement. 

Yahzin’s gaze flew to her father. 

“She’s a formidable dam, Lady Dís, but I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“She sounds very brave,” Yahzin offered tentatively. 

“She is,” Thannor confirmed. “But she’s also a great lady. The dwarves of Durin’s line are fortunate to have her.”

It was only then that the warriors of Minas Tirith itself, the largest contingent of fighters by far, strode through the gates of their city, returning home. The city’s populace went wild. Flowers were thrown at the men’s feet, and more than one man found himself with his arms full of womenfolk and children. 

It took over a half hour, a half hour of Yahzin burning with impatience to know why Thannor held them back, before this group, too, progressed to the second tier of the city. Silence once more stole over the crowd. Heads turned from the king to the gates with expectation and curiosity, for the king made no move to abandon his post. Who remained to honor, Yahzin heard Minas Tirith’s citizens whisper to one another. Had not all been accounted for? 

King Aragorn’s arm lifted once more, commanding silence. “My people. There is one last troop I would have you honor. One who risked the perils of Mordor itself to try to stem the Darkness’s tide before it could crash upon our shores. One who fought upon a field of carnage for a people not their own. Yanar! Bring forth your warriors!”

Yanar? Yahzin straightened, eyes wide. Thannor draped an arm around her shoulders and tucked her to his side as a troop of black-clad Novices silently marched row by row beneath Minas Tirith’s towering stone gateway, their faces exposed to the light of day. All wore scimitars strapped to their hips, and though a handful cast furtive, nervous glances to either side, by and large they kept their attention locked upon Gondor’s king. 

This act, this bold entrance into the city, was a show of faith that stole Yahzin’s breath. Ib-Saldís and Berenor had both told Yahzin and her teammates that Aragorn could be trusted, but still Yahzin had doubted. 

No longer. That the king had won over all of her teammates spoke loudly of his character. Yahzin would no longer doubt him.

At first, a profound silence claimed the bailey. Then whispers followed. 

“Children?” one woman asked a neighbor, aghast. 

“They’re naught but young ones. Yet they entered Mordor?” 

“They’re more of those Black Númenórean children,” another said with heavy suspicion, only to be shushed by an aged man with a wild mop of gray hair and a cane. “They did more than you would ever dare, Torrin Coppersmith. I didn’t see you volunteering to fight at the Black Gates. You stop that talk, or it’s my cane you’ll be feeling next.”

Torrin Coppersmith wisely shut up. The old man harrumphed, turned his back on the man, and then surreptitiously winked at Yahzin. Yahzin smiled back.

There was no applause as Yanar and Gylmal led their teammates to the king, their frames taut and lips flat. It was only then that Yahzin noticed her teammates did not march alone. A half score of men in gray walked to either side of them, spread out and bracketing the Novices loosely. 

“Who..?” she whispered, only to be interrupted by Thannor’s quiet, “The Grey Company. Dunedain like myself. They accompany the Novices to show their support.”

A different type of chill rushed over Yahzin’s skin and she almost cried out when she spotted Erynor and Calenor among them, walking near the Novices’ rear line. She was distracted from calling out a greeting when, without any signal Yahzin could see, the Novices halted before King Aragorn. This, she deemed, had not been planned, for the king’s eyes widened fractionally. The Novices stood at attention for one long beat of the heart. In unison, they placed fists to their chests in a silent act of homage. 

“Hail the king!” Yanar shouted.

“Hail!” the other Novices echoed.

“Hail!” Yanar repeated.

“Hail!” Yahzin and much of the audience joined in. 

Silence, one uncertain in tenor. 

Then one young man began to clap his hands, slowly, emphatically, his eyes upon Yanar and Gylmal. Another joined in. In seconds, the bailey’s walls vibrated with the thunderous cheers of men. 

Yahzin sagged into her father, her arms wrapping around his waist. She hadn’t dared to hope for such a welcome, not in her wildest dreams. 

Maybe…

Maybe the Novices’ days of fighting for an existence were over after all.

OoOoOo

Finnin was ready to tear his beard out when Orodon finally returned. “Well?” he demanded, hands bunching in his sheets. Thyndo and Harrid tensed where they stood, both hanging on every word.

“She lives,” the Ranger told them all, and Finnin felt an avalanche of relieve crash over his head. 

He sagged into his mattress, eyes closing. _She lives._ “Where?” he asked, not opening his eyes. “Where is she?” And how, he wanted to know, was he to get to her? Like as not, she’d be placed within the Women’s Ward on the other side of the Houses of Healing. 

That didn’t work for Finnin. Not one bit. 

One of Duggan’s apprentices buzzed into the room, a child near Thyndo’s age with short hair and a bony frame. “Time for your medicine, Master Dwarf.” 

Finnin swallowed his growl. He tossed back the vile liquid to hurry the lad along, then he focused again on Orodon. “The poison?” he demanded.

Orodon crossed the room and placed one hand to Finnin’s shoulder. “The king and Elladan were able to purge it from her body,” he said. 

“But?” There was a ‘but’ there.  
“She’s unconscious,” Finnin heard through an odd distance. Panic surged. Why that misbegotten cretin of a healer—sending a child to slip him a sleeping draught? “She’s with the wounded,” Orodon continued as Finnin’s eyelids struggled not to slide towards his cheeks. “The wagons are winding their way up the city, but it is taking time with the narrow turns and the crowded streets. Bifur and Ciryan watch over her, Finnin. Rest. She’ll be here soon.”

And he’d not be awake to greet her.

As Finnin’s eyes sealed shut and sleep claimed him, his last thought was, _This is war._ If Duggan had thought Finnin a fractious patient before, he’d seen nothing yet. No one would keep him from his lady once he woke.

No one.


	70. Wake Up

__**Women’s Ward  
Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith  
15 April TA 3019**

Bifur snorted as angry voices, muffled through the door, emerged from the hallway outside his daughter’s room. His lips twitched, and he directed an amused glance Ciryan’s way. His son (Mahal, but he’d never get over that. He had a _son)_ rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh before rising to his feet and walking closer to the door. With arms folded, Ciryan leaned against the wall beside the door frame. There he waited, his head a-shaking.

Sure enough, the ruckus drew nearer, escalating in both timbre and volume. A deep, rasping voice rose above them all, growling in displeasure. Finnin. Of that, Bifur had no doubts. Since Saldís had been installed in her room, the dwarf had made his way to her once before, even with Novices assigned to guard him. 

How Finnin managed to elude the two a second time, Bifur could only imagine. His gold was on Finnur’s interference. ‘Twas a fact the Novices were fascinated with the inventor’s creations, and Finnur ate up the attention like a half starved hobbit at banquet. Aye, if Bifur had to guess, Finnur had distracted the two with a new gadget while Finnin had slunk away, likely though his window. 

Bifur settled deeper into his seat, ready to enjoy the show. Why the healers continued to try, Bifur didn’t know. They were destined to lose this argument just as they’d lost the one with Bifur. (Ordering him to stay abed? When his daughter needed him? Bifur snorted his opinion of that.) 

Not two seconds later, Saldís’s door slammed against the adjoining wall. A pale and angry Finnin stood framed in its aperture, one arm clutching his bandaged middle and doing little to hide the red stain blossoming on the white fabric. _(He’s torn his stitches again,_ Bifur sighed in exasperation.) A young healer attempted to restrain the dwarf with one hand to his upper arm, but Finnin shook her off with a scowl. 

“Sir, this really isn’t appropriate,” the prim lassie decried. “Healer Duggan will not be pleased.”

Finnin grunted his low view o’ that nonsense and took one wobbly step inside the room. Bloodshot eyes locked upon Saldís, and relief mixed with worry turned Finnin’s next step all the more tenuous. In a flash, Ciryan was there aiding him, one arm wrapped around the warrior’s waist. As the two had done the prior time, Ciryan helped Finnin make a beeline for Saldís’s bed. 

There was room enough for both, given the bed’s size, so Bifur didn’t see what the problem was. Were the men and women of the Houses of Healing daft? What did they think Finnin could possibly do that was inappropriate in his condition? Steal a snuggle?

Absurd, it was, especially with Saldís unconscious and her sire and brother watching over her. Men, Bifur concluded, were prissier than even the fussiest dwarrowmatron. 

A passel of riled healers spilled into the room in Finnin’s wake. “You should not be out of bed, Master Dwarf,” a balding man admonished. “You must give your body time to heal.” A woman with a curly mop of gray hair charged in after him, glaring at Finnin and plainly out of patience.

“This is not appropriate,” the first lassie complained again. “This is the Women’s Ward, not a house of ill repute!” 

Bifur could not help it. Nay, he couldn’t. He began to chortle. _My Saldís, you would enjoy this, for sure._ Either that or she’d scowl the healers into a hasty retreat. 

Through both Ciryan and Bofur, Bifur had tried to warn these healers, but none had listened. You could no more keep a worried dwarf from his love’s bedside than rope the moon. 

Actually, the latter might be a hair easier. The moon was less likely to punch in retaliation. 

The women scowled at Bifur, and the older of the two pointed an arthritic digit in his direction. “You are not helping.”

Before Bifur could respond—not that the woman would understand a word he said—Ciryan turned on the elderly lass. “Bifur _told_ you this wouldn’t work,” he bit out. “How many times did Finnin nearly bleed out in his need to get to Saldís? Three! You dosed Finnin up and carted him away once already, and he's limped his way back. Give it up.” Ciryan gestured to Finnin’s bleeding middle. “This is your fault.”

_“Our_ fault?” the older woman shrilled.

“But…” the younger began.

“Finnin stays,” Ciryan thundered, one hand slicing the air like a blade. 

Bifur hid a smile behind his splinted left hand. By Durin, the lad did his family proud. Bifur could not help but wish Saldís was awake to witness it…or to see the new blue rune tattooed beneath her brother’s eye, one matching the tattoo Bifur had been surprised to discover upon his daughter’s face, hidden beneath a fine layer of a flesh-colored substance. 

There was a story there, Bifur thought. He hoped to hear it soon from Saldís’s lips. 

Sour worry surged within his chest, and his gaze returned to his daughter. _She lives,_ he reminded himself. ‘Twas a fact that during the journey south, even as others fretted more and more over Saldís’s slumber, Bifur’s heart had grown conversely lighter, for the most part, with the strengthening belief that his daughter would survive. Bifur breathed easier, deeper. She’d not be dying on him now. Just as the rune on her hand promised, she endured. 

“This is highly irreg—” the balding healer tried next, only to be interrupted by an unexpected and amused, “I believe you’ve reached the end of Novice Ciryan’s patience. Proceed at your own risk, Master Lorigan.” 

The healers bowed and scraped as King Aragorn entered the room. Bifur coughed to hide another laugh as the king’s two shadows appeared behind him. 

The king knew what he was talking about where Novices were concerned. The proof was in the two teens standing just within the doorway. For two days straight, Aragorn had argued he had no need of protection beyond the Tower Guards stationed throughout the city’s top two tiers, but Saldís’s Novices had deemed otherwise. So long as Saldís was down, Aragorn was their assurance of a future. They were not about to permit him to go anywhere without proper protection, namely theirs. 

_Yanar and…Ahnik,_ Bifur named the two lads protecting the king. Both wore new livery with pride—doubtless King Aragorn’s work, that—and each lad took in the situation with one short look. Matching frowns instantly turned the healers’ way. 

Bifur swallowed a bigger grin. 

The healers had no idea what they courted by displeasing the Novices. Bifur doubted the lads and lasses would resort to violence—or rather, he hoped not—but he’d heard about their stunt with purge weed. There were many a ways of making their displeasure known without causing bloodshed. 

Though still uncertain of their welcome, the teens were utterly devoted to Saldís’s protection…and Finnin’s and Bifur’s because of her. Bifur, they left to Ciryan’s care—for the most part—but if Bifur stepped away for a second, a Novice would attach him- or herself to Bifur’s side in a flash. 

Though Finnin had successfully won free of his guards, really ‘twas a wonder he’d escaped the Men’s Ward without acquiring a pair or three of the other young ones. Yanar, for one, looked a mite displeased when he failed to locate any more of his fellows in attendance. Finnin’s act, Bifur suspected, was about to earn him greater surveillance, and if Finnur had been involved as Bifur believed, the inventor had best tread very carefully in the following days. 

Bifur laughed all the harder, ignoring the baffled, amused, and offended looks he drew. 

Aragorn’s lips twitched, and when his gaze met Bifur’s, Bifur saw humor sparkling in the king’s gray eyes. Then with absolute sobriety, Aragorn directed to the healers, “With all due respect, my friends, you have lost this argument. Finnin will not get the rest he needs so long as you keep separating him from his lady.”

“But…”

“As difficult as it will doubtless be,” Aragorn said in a voice dry enough to catch fire, “I’m sure Finnin will conduct himself with honor and restrain himself from gawking at all the Gondorian beauties in your care during his stay.”

Finnin’s eyes rounded slightly before going flat. His lips pinched together.

Ciryan snickered. 

“But his stitches…” the old woman objected.

“…will fare worse if you keep trying to separate them. I doubt any jostling my kinswoman might do can compare to the damage he’s already done to himself in his quest to reach her. If you worry so much, add a second bed. There is room,” the king commented as he leaned over Saldís, touching her wrists and forehead. Bifur’s heart rejoiced to see the king’s pleased expression. 

Aye, his lass would live. 

Two of the healers grumbled, but Aragorn cut them off with a firmer, “Saldís will be comforted by the presence of her betrothed. I’ll hear no more on the matter. Bring another bed.”

And that, Bifur thought, was that. With low grumbling, another bed was found and hauled inside. Finnin sat on the foot of Saldís’s bed oozing satisfaction as the healers made up his new bunk. Ciryan hovered over him, arms folded before his chest as he watched suspiciously for any sign of trickery. 

_My son._ With each day that passed, the truth of that claim sank deeper.

OoOoOo

Finnin drank down his medicine only after catching Ciryan’s eye. The lad nodded subtly. Aye, if any healer thought to steal Finnin away again once Finnin was asleep, he’d be finding the task a mite more difficult thanks to Ciryan and his scimitar.

 _Saldís has a wee brother._ The shock of it continued to resonate through Finnin’s mind, but in truth, he was pleased with the discovery. His Saldís could use a brother. She needed to love the other side of her heritage too, and what better way than through a nadadith and the other Novices? 

Finnin returned his empty cup to the healer and relaxed upon his bed, his body feverish and throbbing fiercely. Nevertheless, he could have purred in contentment. He’d won this battle. He was near his love—within hand’s reach—and while he’d be a pitiful deterrent to any who might think to harm her (Gart was a lesson Finnin vowed to never lose sight of), his heart had not been able to rest so long as he wasn’t by her side to protect her. If one man could harbor enough bitterness to betray king and crew in search of vengeance, others could be of the same mind. His Saldís’s past was not a noble one. There could be more desiring her blood.

Bifur would spend himself to safeguard his daughter, but like Finnin, he’d be of little help in a true fight given the state of his hands. Nay, if danger came stalking Saldís, it would be Ciryan who would be doing the defending. _And his friends,_ Finnin amended as the door opened with the healer’s departure and two frazzled Novices squeezed inside, Thyndo and Harrid. They scowled at Finnin in unanimous displeasure, but Finnin couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

He did, however, spare a thought to hope his brother gave the two a wide berth in the days to come. 

As slumber began to take him, Finnin’s hand reached across the small space separating his bed from his love’s and sought her hand. _Men lananubukhs menu, Bâhzundushuh. I’ll be here when you wake._

Beneath heavy eyelids, his gaze drifted and happened across Ciryan. How, he wondered, had this come to be? How had his lass found herself a brother? There was a story there, and one day, Finnin would know it. He’d know all of what he’d missed since that warg’s arse Valkthor had struck. 

The boy did have somewhat of his Saldís’s appearance, Finnin mused drowsily. They had the same black hair. Aye, and the same thick eyelashes that granted each a penetrating, sharp-eyed look. (Albeit that might be more due to each of them possessing a glare fit enough to scorch a dwarf’s beard clean off his face.)

Finnin rubbed his thumb across the back of Saldís’s hand. 

He succumbed to sleep a much happier dwarf.

OoOoOo

Days passed, and Saldís slept on.

The king never failed to stop by and check on her progress—much to Dori’s gratitude—but despite every improvement Aragorn cataloged, their Saldís slept on. Many of the Novices turned sharper of temper, and fights broke out among them, fights quickly quashed by Yanar, Gylmal and the recovering Tahal. Aragorn could only repeat to them all that Saldís appeared to be well on the mend. She merely slept.

Like as not, Dori’s niece needed it. She’d shouldered a heavy burden for far too long, to Dori’s mind, and that poison had done her no favors. As Dori took his turn watching over her after shooing both Ciryan and Bifur out to get some rest of their own—an argument Dori had won only because he was stronger than the both of them combined—he refused to give up hope. 

Saldís would awaken when she was good ‘n ready. 

Dori shook out some of the fabric he’d purchased from Minas Tirith’s merchants just that morning. Few of Saldís’s things had survived her journey, and no niece of Dori’s would be dressed in the inferior garments he’d found available for sale. She’d adored the sleep suit Dori had made her—Bifur had shared that—so Dori planned one of those as well as a half dozen pairs of tunics and breeches. 

A fresh start deserved new clothes.

OoOoOo

__  
**The Citadel, Minas Tirith  
19 April TA 3019**

Dís smirked as men, dwarves, elves, and one hobbit assembled within the Citadel upon Minas Tirith’s topmost, seventh tier. Dís’s of necessity short message was even now winging its way towards Erebor where it would then be sent by raven to Ered Luin. It would take time to reach Dwalin, but Dís savored the imagined expression upon her dear friend’s face when he finally read it:

_Defeated Dark Lord’s armies in Mordor. Black Company victorious. You missed a mighty battle. -Dís_

Dwalin would have an apoplexy. Mordor? What in Mahal’s name had Dís being doing in Mordor? No doubt he’d be out the door in a flash, charging all the way to Minas Tirith to wring her neck…once he’d assured himself she was in one piece. 

King Vestin claimed the seat beside her with the quietness that had characterized the young king since the Black Gates. One glimpse of his face sobered her in a hurry, for Vestin’s was a face etched in grief, aged by a loss his people had never before known. Too many of his valiant warriors had died. Far too many.

Dís placed her hand upon his arm. When his dark eyes flew to hers, she met them, hoping he read her own sorrow. She knew his pain. She’d been in his boots more than once after the loss of Erebor and then the disaster before the walls of Khazâd-dum. 

Vestin cleared his throat and faced forward, his throat convulsing in a swallow. He looked to where Legolas, Gimli and the sons of Elrond conversed, doubtless in search of distraction. Even though drowning in regrets and sorrows, the dwarf king had been curious about the elves of Middle Earth, for those in the Wild Wood, she’d been told, were much different in temperament and appearance.

Like Dís, Vestin had made use of Minas Tirith’s messenger birds, only his message would travel first to Dol Amroth where one of the men’s ships would carry word to Queen Sissal and the dwarves aiding Dís’s people in Dol Hamoth. Dís idly wondered how many babes and toddlers Goira, Kyri, Glinor and (if Mahal was kind) a recovering Medlinor had been forced to contend with. Doubtless the lot of them would be heartily sick of changing nappies ere Prince Imrahil’s people brought word and escorted all of them to Umbar and on to Minas Tirith. 

The question became, she thought privately with returning humor, which would reach the White City first. Would it be the parties from Dol Hamoth and Umbar, or Dwalin?

A door opened. Gondor’s king walked into the large hall, his boot heels rapping out a hollow pattern on the marble floor. Dressed in finery, he was now, so that he scarcely resembled the man who’d exited the battlefield. Though yet uncrowned, he was every inch the king. His coronation had been delayed only in favor of more pressing needs. 

When Aragorn reached the assembled nobles and dignitaries at the long table in the center of the room, Yanar and Hennah standing guard behind him, the king forwent the chair reserved for him. He remained standing, and with hands clasped before him, leaned against the back of the ornate chair. Merriadoc Brandybuck, seated between Prince Imrahil and Gimli, inched forward on his seat, his expression intent. 

_The Novices’ champion,_ Dís thought. How true that label was. In the short time Dís had been in the city, she’d seen the proof of it. Doubtless, it was why the hobbit was present.

“My friends and countrymen, Princess Dís, King Vestin, we are here to discuss a matter that concerns us all,” he said gravely. 

“The Novices,” Gimli said with his usual lack of tact. Dís instantly winced. When put that way, one would think the Novices a problem to be solved, not children who deserved all Middle Earth could provide them.

Hennah’s eyes flew wide, then a wounded look shot towards Yanar. Yanar, Dís noted with relief, gestured the girl to calmness. 

“The Novices,” Aragorn agreed readily. “They have…”

OoOoOo

What else the king said, Nahir didn’t stick around to hear. He’d heard enough.

He snuck out of the hall without being seen— _Idiot Gondorians_ —and rushed to Novices’ small barracks. All the trust he’d felt the day the king had marched into the city vanished under a life’s worth of suspicion and distrust. 

If the king thought he was going to _do_ something about the Novices, Nahir begged to differ. 

He raced down the ramp to the Sixth Circle, intent on reporting to Tahal.

OoOoOo

Finnin had been drowsing quite comfortably with his lass cuddled up next to him—that the healers had thought he’d not wind up next to her to begin with, he’d never understand—when the door to his room burst open and over a dozen bodies spilled inside. In a flash, Thyndo and Harrid were standing before Saldís’s bed, both with scimitars drawn. Sitting in a chair wedged into one corner, Finnur lifted his eyes from his newest contraption in the making, his eyebrows high. Bifur turned his back to the window in the opposite corner, his brows pinched in concern.

“Ulsa!” Thyndo and Harrid complained to the ringleader at the head of the mob. Scimitars slid into scabbards a blink later.

The tall girl glared at them, but before she could speak, the rest of the Novices burst into explanations, their words tripping over one another. They kept glancing at Saldís, Bifur, and Finnin, their words an incomprehensible mess. Finnin caught “king” and “do something” but that was it until Bifur calmly commanded in Khuzdul, _“Itkit.”_

Silence descended. All eyes panned to Bifur. Bifur turned to Ciryan. 

The lad glowered at his teammates unhappily. “What?”

Ulsa, as Finnin could now name her, folded her arms before her chest. “The king called a meeting this hour to discuss what is to be done about us. Without,” she stressed, “inviting us.”

“What is this?” Bifur said blankly in Khuzdul. 

“What?” Finnin, Ciryan and Thyndo echoed. “The king wouldn’t do that,” Thyndo added. 

“Well, he did,” Ulsa growled. “Yanar and Hennah are in there with him, but if the king has decided to get rid of us, we need the commander.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Bifur said to Finnin. Finnin nodded his agreement and translated Bifur’s words for the teens.

“Well, he did,” another Novice interjected, one Finnin had yet to put a name to. 

Another lad strolled through the door, his long black braid swishing one way and then the other with his head shakes. “I told you not to bother Ib-Saldís,” he said.

“We need her,” Ulsa said flatly.

“Ulsa,” he tried. “Only a handful of days have passed since you hailed Aragorn as your king with the rest of us. Yet here you are now, doubting him so soon?”

The lass had the decency to look a wee bit ashamed. “We _need her,”_ Ulsa said again, and Finnin frowned at the thread of panic in her voice. 

It was at that moment that smallest Novice among them pushed his way to the forefront. Staring Finnin in the eye, he said, “You’re gunna have to kiss her.”

Ulsa startled, her rigid fold of arms slackening. “What?”

“Urien,” he of the black braid groaned. “We’ve been through this.”

“He has to kiss her, Gylmal,” the Novice said. “I’ve been listening to the Gondorians. When a lady is trapped in sleep, her mate’s kiss always wakes her up,” the lad said with authority.

“That’s a _story,_ Urien,” Thyndo said with an eye roll. “A Gondorian fairytale, and a stupid one. Things like that don’t happen.”

“It’s not stupid. It’ll work,” Urien stubbornly maintained with a frown for his teammates. He turned expectant eyes on Finnin. “Go on.”

Gylmal heaved a sigh but gestured Finnin to go ahead. His expression said, _You’ll never get any peace unless you humor him._

Bifur raised his hands as if to paw his face, only to halt and grimace at his hands. He instead shook his head, his lips twitching. As Ciryan and others began to argue, Bifur…smirked? What in Mahal’s…?

“Ye heard the lad,” Bifur drawled. When Finnin began to sputter, he added in a voice shorn of humor, “Naught else has worked. I’m not knowing what my Gedûl is waiting for, but mayhap a kiss from you will convince her she’s rested enough.”

_Never let it be said a dwarf blinks at the chance to kiss his lady._ Finnin laughed softly, drawing over a dozen glares his way. To them all, he said, “If Healer Duggan throws a fit that I’ve torn my stitches again, I expect the lot of you to protect me.”

Gylmal nodded in a businesslike fashion. Thyndo snorted. Ulsa shook her head in disgust, a frown on her lips. Urien beamed. Ciryan grumbled words beneath his breath, and Finnin, after levering himself up painfully onto one elbow, kissed the woman who stole his breath each time he looked at her. 

Softly.

Tenderly. 

_Wake, my love,_ he willed. _The children are right. It’s time you opened your eyes._

OoOoOo

Saldís drifted aimlessly, so tired in her spirit she wanted nothing more than to sleep an Age.

And afraid.

Sometimes, she bobbed near the surface. Was that Ciryan’s voice? Other times, she wrapped herself in the deep, comforting blanket of true slumber and allowed herself to drift in a blissful state of unawareness. She floated, and she made no effort to stop. 

Always, memory pursued her. She never forgot the sight of Nori wreathed in flames as he flew over the heads of men, his name a brand on her lips. She couldn’t escape the terrifying image of Bofur suspended by his neck from Kimilzor’s hand. She dreamed of her blade digging deep into Finnin’s belly, and she witnessed Adâd being swept away in a tide of earth. 

Other images followed, hazier images. Dori wept alone as Bifur, Finnin, Bofur and Nori’s corpses were buried beneath four cairns of stone. Her uncle tore his beard to shreds, his face ravaged with grief. 

Bofur shouted as a Morgul blade punched into his chest. The color bled from his skin. His wide eyes met hers as they darkened into black pits. His flesh turned gray, and a cruel smile tilted his lips, a smile her uncle had never worn. He rose as a wraith. 

Were any real? Were none? 

More voices reached her. Dori’s. Adâd’s. Were they real? Or were they naught more that dreaming illusions, and if she but opened her eyes, she’d wake to a world in which she’d never hear them again? 

Hope had failed her so many times. She was _tired._ She could not face one more hard truth. She just…couldn’t.

And so she slept. She immersed herself in the voices, contented to bask in their low timbres. When a strong arm tucked her close to a warm body, she welcome the sensation but refused to question or speculate. She let a life’s worth of exhaustion reign and buried herself in this floating, amorphous existence. Here, she could keep the voices. Here, there was no monstrous grief waiting to eat her soul.

She heard Bofur recounting tales, most of them involving King Thorin and Bilbo Baggins. She heard Dori hum under his breath as he often did when knitting or mending. She heard Finnur muttering in his incomprehensible way as he puttered with his doodads, and she heard Adâd beginning to teach Ciryan Khuzdul. 

Best of all, the infinitely precious and poignantly familiar sound of a soft, hollow bellows reached her ears. It returned her to the dream and the cherished memory of Finnin’s chest pillowing her head. 

Nothing could convince her to leave this.

Nothing.

Until lips brushed hers, tasting faintly of chicken broth. Saldís uncurled from the tight knot she’d drawn herself into within her mind, lured closer by temptation. 

The kiss ended. Had she imagined it? 

_“Men lananubukhs menu, Bâhzundushuh,”_ a rough voice murmured in her ear, the sensation sending shivers through her. 

Finnin. Mahal, it was Finnin. Real? 

A cheek rubbed against hers. 

Could he live? Could he have survived being lugged about by Berenor like an unwieldy saddlebag as they raced for the Pass of Cirith Ungol? If she opened her eyes, would he remain…or vanish like the morning dew? She just didn’t know. 

“I’ll not be denied, lass,” he whispered. “Your Novices are scared—”

“We’re not _scared,”_ a chorus of voices objected. 

“—and need you. I need you. Your Adâd and nadadith lose sleep daily for the worry you’re causing them. It’s time to wake.” Lips returned to hers, coaxing, caressing. “Wake for me, Dushin-Mizim. Wake.” Another languid kiss, one that send curls of pleasure spiraling through her body. 

The lips began to retreat. Before she could weigh the consequences, she lifted her head the centimeter necessary to seal their lips once more. Saldís kissed him back. Hungrily. Desperately. Illusion or real, it didn’t matter. She kissed her warrior with every scrap of love in her, wordlessly conveying how much he meant to her, how much she needed him, too. 

“Grown ups,” a voice muttered in disgust. 

“Oh, shove it,” another groused. “It’s working.”

“Is not. Her eyes are still closed.”

“Is too. She’s kissing him.”

The lips locked with Saldís’s shook with laughter. The kiss ended. “Open your eyes for me, Dushin-Mizim. Please.” A kiss brushed across her cheek. 

_Mahal, please._ Please let this be real. Please don’t her awaken to the reality she most feared. 

With her heart beating loudly in her own ears, Saldís dared to part her eyelids. Instantly, her gaze was captured by a set of intense Tane blues that beamed with the warmth of the sun. 

“You’re back,” Finnin whispered with fierce joy and triumph. “My bonny love, my brave lioness, you’re back.” Arms closed around her and hauled her to a hairy chest. Saldís had a split second to register a thick layer of bandages beneath her fingertips, then Finnin jerked away with a pained gasp. 

Like lightning, her mind tallied up the facts. Bandages. Finnin in pain. _The wound._

She scrambled backwards frantically, right off the bed. Finnin’s hand lashed hold of her wrist, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from toppling. With a low, “Oof,” she fell gracelessly onto her rump on a cold, marble floor, a lightweight yellow nightgown pooling around her knees. (Where in Mahal’s name was she? And what was she wearing?) There she sat for a handful of seconds, blinking as her confused mind tried to grapple with reality. 

Finnin lived. The chicken broth taste lingering on her lips confirmed it. That blessed truth hit home like a sledgehammer, bringing with it a mountain of relief. The skin of the hand wrapped around her wrist was reassuringly warm and vital. Her eyes closed as emotions stormed through her. 

She’d not killed him. Finnin was alive. She’d not killed him. 

But she’d stabbed him. The guilt returned, robbing her of breath. If he turned from her now, if she lost him, she didn’t know how she’d cope. She’d survive, but would she want to? 

_Nori said he forgave me._ She clung to the memory with desperation, so afraid to believe but petrified not to. Who could forgive so terrible a betrayal?

‘Twas then she realized a familiar weight remained latched upon her forearm. It was Finnin’s courting bracelet, the vambrace he’d fashioned for her with his own hands. 

He hadn’t removed it. 

Nor, she realized belatedly, was his braid gone. It dangled faithfully from her temple. 

“That’s a first,” Finnin said with a throaty chuckle, one followed by a low grunt.

Saldís shot the dwarf a narrow-eyed look, then she blinked to find him sporting the most idiotic, dopey smirk. 

“What?” she asked defensively. 

“The first time I’ve knocked a lass off her feet with naught but a kiss,” he said with a wink. 

Laughter bubbled up, sparkling with pinpricks of hysteria, only to be swallowed whole by despair. _Mahal,_ she moaned. She was discombobulated, reeling every which way and… “I stabbed you,” she admitted in a hoarse whisper. “I gutted you, Finnin.”

“Aye. You did a fair job of it, too,” he acknowledged. When she flinched, his hold on her wrist tightened. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“No one else wielded the blade,” she spat, wrenching her wrist free. “I almost killed you.” There was no way to prevent the raw horror from leaking into her voice. 

Saldís rose onto unsteady feet, her legs as wobbly as a newborn foal’s and her eyes blurring with unshed tears. Her arms wrapped around her middle. “I am so sorry,” she said in a thick voice, her eyes dodging his. “Mahal, Finnin, I am so sorry. I never would have…” Her lips slammed shut, trembling in a flat line.

A number of her Novices shuffled uncomfortably, but Urien rocked on his heels as if he’d singlehandedly saved the world. (What was…? _Not important._ She dismissed it.) Ciryan glanced over Saldís’s shoulder as if asking for direction from whoever was behind her. Ulsa looked impatient and ready to interrupt, and most of the others appeared riled and lost.

Saldís would need to address that firs—

“Come here.”

Her head whipped around. There he lay, the dwarf who would always, always, have her heart, a bit paler than normal, his hair and beard both a mess, but he’d never been more handsome or blessedly vital. 

“Come here,” he repeated, “or I’m coming to you.” 

She hesitated. 

“I mean it, lass. You come to me, or I’m coming for you.”

Thyndo burst in, his tone that of a soul ready to tear his own hair out. “Please, Ib-Saldís, listen to him. He’s already busted open his stitches three times.”

“Four,” Ulsa, Gylmal, and Bilal corrected in unison. 

Finnur drew her attention with his low chuckle. “They found his fool carcass unconscious in the courtyard just beyond the Houses of Healing twice, lass,” Finnur explained.

“And the gardens once,” Thyndo tacked on with a glare towards Finnin. 

“Nothing stops a dwarf from reaching his lady when she needs him,” Finnin said softly. “Nothing.” 

That fast, her eyes locked with his. Her nerves sizzled at the intensity she found there. 

_“Men lananubukhs menu,_ Saldís,” he said with an intensity hot enough to melt the fears from her. “And nothing Valkthor or anyone can do will change that. The trick he played was a cruel one. One, I was glad to hear, that he paid for in full. Now come here.”

She slowly walked to his bedside. 

Finnin claimed her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it on the knuckles. In Khuzdul, he said, “We don’t have much time. Your Novices are fretting themselves sick over nothing, and they need you. I’ll let Ciryan explain. But I’m not letting you walk out that door until I’ve held you.”

“Finnin,” she burst, “you were almost split into two.”

“Trust me,” he said with a grimace. “I’m well aware of that.” More soberly, “I need to hold you, if only for a minute.” His lips twitched. “Then you can rush off to play the hero again.” Before she could respond, he amended it with, “As long as you keep Bifur and your brother with you.”

Adâd? She stiffened. “He survived? Nori? Bofur?”

‘Twas then arms wrapped around her from behind, and a familiar silhouette swam into view. _Adâd._

She almost hurled herself into his arms, but Ciryan’s rushed, “Careful,” brought her up short. “He’s still healing,” her brother finished lamely, his expression turning uncertain. 

Saldís blanched as she got her first good look at her sire. Mahal, but he was covered in burn scars and ugly flesh in varying stages of healing. Her hand lifted, fingers trembling, to brush his cheek but halted before making contact. “Who…?”

“Kimilzor,” Ciryan told her. He circled the bed to join her. “Bifur had the last word.” At Saldís’s silent demand, Ciryan said, “He killed him. Rammed his boar spear clean through Kimilzor, armor and everything.”

Saldís’s eyes rounded as they returned to her father. Such a feat would take incredible strength…or fury. _He saw,_ she realized. _He saw what Kimilzor did._

“Our family,” Bifur said with solemn finality, “is avenged.”

She'd once believed her sire the mightiest of warriors, that he could slay dragons if he wished. She'd been right.


	71. Taking Care of Business

After an exquisitely gentle embrace and kiss—Mahal, even hot with fever her Finnin could scorch her with his kisses—Saldís asked her adâd to watch over Finnin, gathered the Novices from the room, and with Ciryan’s aid, led them out the door and to the nearest courtyard, one overflowing with potted fronds and fragrant flowers. 

The short walk left her trembling and short of breath. Nevertheless, she felt half giddy. Her family lived. Adâd hadn’t been buried alive. Nori and Bofur had survived Kimilzor’s attacks. Her Novices were not all slain due to her leadership, and she wasn’t going to roam the lands as an undead monster. Tempting, indeed, to pinch herself to ensure this was not all a dream.

“How long?” she asked Ciryan as she collapsed onto one of dozens of stone benches scattered through the space. _Not a dream._ In a dream, she wouldn’t feel so terrible. “How long did I sleep?”

“Today is the nineteenth of April,” he said, studying her closely. 

She inhaled sharply. “Twenty-five days?”

Her nadad nodded, his throat tight and lips clamping into a thin line. 

_Twenty-five days._ It certainly explained the deep rooted weakness permeating her body. She fisted the fingers of her right hand, or tried to rather. She’d noticed it earlier, the stiffness of the limb. An odd numbness ruled it from shoulder to hand. Her right fingers resisted efforts to do more than curl slightly from the lower knuckle to their tips. If pressed to hold a sword, she doubted her hand retained the strength to do so. 

The left responded to her commands with ease, she was gratified to note. 

Her gaze lifted to her nadad. If she read him aright, she’d frightened him, and badly at that. What had he gone through in her absence? Adâd would have cared for him, but had Adâd been in any condition to do so?

_Idiot._ She scoffed at her own foolishness. Ciryan had survived over a decade in Caeldor without her. Had she died, he would have continued to survive. He was no wilting flower. 

Saldís looked to Gylmal, marking the way Ulsa pranced beside him in urgency. Ulsa had struck Saldís as one of her more cool-headed teens. What had brought this about? “Gylmal? Report, if you would.”

Gylmal did just that. He told her of the Novices’ actions at the Battle of the Morannon. He told her of their victory and the king’s speech on the battlefield. He told her of marching into Minas Tirith and being honored, and he shared the lingering suspicions harbored of them by a small segment of Minas Tirith’s citizens. 

He also informed her, when she inquired, of her Novices’ losses. Of the one hundred and twenty-six Novices who had departed Caeldor with her—one hundred and eight of which had remained with her after Ilhia’s disobedience—sixty four remained. Of those, seventeen had been injured, one (Lohri) badly enough to yet be confined to the Houses of Healing. The nine who had opted to remain loyal to the Six Lords and Mordor when the Novices had been deciding their fate were imprisoned within Minas Tirith under the combined watch of the city’s Tower Guard and Saldís’s Novices.

She wheezed, the news a punch in the belly. She’d known logically that she was endangering them when she’d asked for their help at Durthang, but to hear the numbers, to know there were faces she’d never see again… 

Ulsa’s patience ended. “This is a waste of time! The king and his nobles are even now discussing what to ‘do’ with us. If they are going to turn on us, we need to leave _now._ We’ll have to fight our way out of this death trap!” An accusatory glare burned Saldís’s way. “Are you with us?” she all but dared. 

_Fear._ ‘Twas fear Saldís heard, and she paused, wondering if any of it was truly warranted. 

Ciryan took one step towards Ulsa, his hand clamped to his scimitar hilt. “How dare you. Don’t _ever_ use that tone when speaking to my sister,” he growled. “She took on the entire Black Númenórean army for us at the Isenmouthe. She doesn’t deserve your scorn.”

Though she’d done nothing to earn it, it was plain her brother had continued to protect her while she’d lain unconscious. “Ciryan,” Saldís said softly, touching his arm. When he glanced at her, she smiled at him. “I won’t break, Nadad.” 

He scowled and huffed in exasperation.

She turned to Ulsa. “I swore to you, Ulsa, that if you followed me, my sword would be yours. I did not lie. If there is a threat to you, I will deal with it.”

Ulsa calmed some and nodded jerkily. 

To them all, Saldís asked, “Is there reason to believe we are in danger?” _We_ , not _you._ She had to keep them a team.

Gylmal held up his hand, silencing the others before they could do more than begin to tumble over each other with their words. “Nahir snuck into a meeting King Aragorn was having with his nobles and the other lords and kings. He _didn’t_ …” Gylmal frowned at Ulsa and the other Novices, “…stick around to hear everything. King Aragorn told the group they had been assembled to discuss us, but that’s it. He’s has been nothing but good to us.”

“He lets two of us guard him at all times,” Ciryan added. “He wouldn’t do that if he thought us a threat.”

Ulsa’s lips twisted. Anissah avoided Gylmal’s and Ciryan’s eyes entirely. 

Saldís sat very still. _So._ She should have expected this. These children had not had the fortuitous start to life Saldís had been blessed with. They’d never had the unwavering protection and support of an adâd or uncles. ( _Yet,_ she vowed.) A life’s worth of doubt and distrust would not go away overnight. 

How, she asked herself, was she to best help them? After a moment’s consideration, she decided. Better to do this once and openly. “Ulsa?”

The girl glared as if anticipating an argument. She wasn’t going to get it. 

“Thank you. You did the ring thing,” Saldís said. Ulsa’s eyes flared. Her stuff posture relaxed minutely. Gylmal’s brow creased with confusion. To all of them, Saldís continued, “When you have doubts or questions, address them. Don’t assume. Ask questions. Find me, find another who has earned your trust and present your concern. If I am not available, I hope you know you can turn to my father or uncles.”

A handful of heads bobbed uncertainly. A few of the others looked relieved. “Or Merry,” Harval muttered. 

Who was Merry? A question for later. 

“Now, let’s address this. Gylmal? Would you fetch your teammates? Everyone not assigned to some duty, please?” she asked. He nodded and headed out. To the rest of them, she directed, “I need my uncles.”

OoOoOo

Forty-five minutes later, Dori half carried Saldís up the fifty or so steep stairs leading to the Citadel. Saldís spared a thought to feel badly for Gondor’s king, whom she’d yet to meet. (According to Dori, Aragorn had tended Saldís daily, but she hadn’t been awake for any of those visits, Saldís figured it didn’t count.) Invading his conference when many of Middle Earth’s most powerful men were in attendance was doubtless _not_ the way to endear herself to King Aragorn, especially with her Novices’ list of demands rattling around in her head, but better this than Ulsa storming the Citadel with others of the more unsettled teens.

When Yahzin had learned the reason for Saldís’s summons, she’d been incredulous. “My father is at that meeting. Golodir, too, right Sivva?”

Sivva had nodded an affirmative and sniffed disdainfully at her peers’ suspicions. 

“Neither of them would let anyone threaten us,” Yahzin said with a shake of the head. “If it did come to that, they’d round up Erynor and Calenor and get us out of here, but Aragorn wouldn’t turn on us. This whole thing is stupid.” 

Saldís had buried her amusement, but it had been heartening to see Yahzin, Sivva, Gylmal, Tahal and others so assured where the Rangers were concerned. 

Halfway up the Citadel stairs, Saldís’s knees gave way. Only Dori’s strong clasp kept her from tumbling down the stairs. 

As expected, Dori didn’t react well to her momentary lapse. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Dori fretted. She clutched him as he hefted her the rest of the way up the stairs. 

“This has to be done, Uncle,” she said in a voice short of breath. “You heard the Novices.”

“Aye, but now? You’ve just awakened.”

True enough. She smiled at him lopsidedly. “As soon as we’re done, I intend to crawl back into bed and nap. After I eat. I feel hollow to my toes.”

Dori hummed under his breath. 

“She’s right, Nadad,” Nori interjected from behind them. A glance revealed Nori fiddling with a blade, his favorite dagger, she identified upon spying the ornate crown upon the hilt. Nori stood with chin lifted, studying the Citadel. It was an impressive structure all of gleaming white stone framed by a dozen large columns. 

Nori’s eyes flicked to them. “Can’t let the Novices worry all night.” He returned his dagger to its sheath. “No telling what trouble they’ll get themselves into.”

Dori huffed his reluctant agreement. 

Ciryan frowned at the three of them. “Let’s just get this done,” he said. He stepped past Nori to take hold of Saldís’s right elbow.   
From her left, Dori’s arm tightened around her. They slowly made their way to where four Tower Guards stood watch outside the doors to the Citadel.

Four souls of no noble birth.

Interrupting a meeting of kings and princes.

To inform them of what they should do.

_This,_ she thought, _should be interesting._ ‘Twas a shame Bofur had remained behind to divert Ulsa and the others from their fears. He’d have enjoyed this.

OoOoOo

Yanar couldn’t school his face into blankness. This meeting had _not_ gone how he’d expected.

The suspicion he’d anticipated was present, but the few nobles of King Aragorn’s who’d finagled their way into attendance to voice such doubt had been roundly silenced by Aragorn, King Eomer, King Vestin, Prince Imrahil, and Princess Dís. Merry had let the others have their say, but it was plain to Yanar that the hobbit would have used the sharp edge of his tongue on the two worst offending nobles if he’d deemed it necessary. 

No, this meeting was nothing like he’d expected. Instead of dignitaries arguing over who should shoulder the burden of taking in a bunch of war-like kids, it had devolved into a heated debate as to who had the right to claim them. Mablung had argued with the help of Lord Faramir that since most of the Novices were descended from the Rangers of Ithilien, the Novices belonged with Mablung’s people.

That hadn’t sat well with Imrahil or members of the Gray and Black Companies. Each group had voiced a desire to welcome Novices into their households, particularly Golodir and Thannor. Those two had all but adopted Sivva and Yahzin respectively, and each looked ready to wage war to protect his new child. 

Yanar watched Princess Dís drum her fingers on the arm of her chair and waited for her to enter the discussion. He knew Princess Dís was of interest to more than one of his teammates. She’d intervened on Ib-Saldís’s behalf, and some Novices had expressed interest in serving her. 

With a final tap of her fingers, the lady spoke. “Thorin’s Hall stands ready to welcome any who wish to make their home with us.” When Mablung stiffened, she added, “These children have known nothing but harm from the hands of men. I mean no offense, Mablung, Captain Faramir. I but mention the possibility that some may wish for a new start without painful memories constantly before their faces.”

The silence that followed was abashed as if none had considered that possibility. Aragorn cocked an eyebrow and turned to Yanar, and Yanar lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know.” He thought it might be too soon to know for sure if living among men would be a problem for Yanar’s teammates. 

_More a problem for the older Novices,_ he mused privately. Ulsa, for one. 

“I don’t believe I’ve heard. How many Novices are there?” Lord Faramir interjected, elbow on the arm of his chair and hand to his chin. 

Aragorn straightened, no longer leaning against his chair. “We have the nine who remained loyal to Mordor,” he said. “I have visited them daily, but they continue in anger and hostility. I have not decided on a course with them. Of those who fought against the Dark Lord, there are fifty-five.”

“What of the younger ones?” Golodir asked, his face pensive. 

Thannor’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it. He crossed one leg over the other. “I have no way of knowing if we lost any,” he cautioned. “The situation at Dol Hamoth left much to be desired. Of the infants not yet weaned, there were eighty-three.” 

Gasps of shock filled the air, then heads whipped to face Yanar. Yanar again shrugged. “It was the purpose of the Dens and Nursery, to breed an army. The number sounds right.”

_“Eighty three_ left with how many to care for them?” Ranger Dagoras asked as he straightened from the pillar of stone he’d been leaning against. 

“Some of the Black Company and, if they were willing, the nurses who had been taking care of the children before Caeldor fell,” Thannor said.

“Too few,” Dís commented.

“My mother and a hundred of our dams and older warriors rode to their aid,” Vestin interjected. “So long as the Black Company was able to cope for the week it would have taken to reach them, the wee ones should be well.” To Dís, “With them, they took a third of our nanny goats.” A touch of humor warmed his face. “You probably heard the uproar. Goats don’t like our _gorrah_ at the best of times. Strapping the nannies onto the lizards did not make for happy nannies or _gorrah.”_

“Eighty three,” Aragorn said heavily, closing his eyes for a moment. To Yanar, it appeared as if the king was calculating, weighing options. “And the toddlers? The young children?”

“Of those that went to Umbar with Hlein, Ragan, and Thalon,” Thannor said after a sigh, “there were near four hundred counted as Novices. Those of toddler age to almost five, two hundred.”

“What?” Merry burst. He quickly frowned. “Wait. Those numbers don’t make sense. If there were two hundred too young to be counted as Novices, how could there be only four hundred Novices too young for war?”

“And why were there not thousands more Númenóreans on the battlefield?” Mablung threw in.

_They don’t get it._ These men had no idea… Yanar answered, “In the Nursery, no one actively hunted you.” His audience fell horribly silent, and Yanar thought Merry looked appalled. “Once a child became a Novice, the training and weeding out began. By the end of training, where once ten Novices had stood, typically only one or two remained.”

“If that.”

At the unexpected interruption, heads craned towards the double doors leading into the room. Yanar jerked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hennah break into a huge smile.

OoOoOo

Saldís ignored the pair of Tower Guards escorting her group as they glowered at her, each looking for all the world as if he’d bitten into a sour _khejeka_ fruit that she’d dared to speak before being properly announced to their king. She’d broken some cardinal point of etiquette, no doubt, but since she intended to step on a bunch of noble toes this hour, she dismissed it.

Her Novices had requested she war on their behalf. War she would, if it proved necessary.

Even if she’d never felt less impressive. 

Instead of cutting a commanding figure, Saldís leaned heavily on her uncle’s arm, shaky and (more than likely) pale. She wore the plain gray tunic and trousers Dori had made her, their simpleness a stark contrast to the finery of those dominating the center of the room. No expensive jewelry adorned her forehead, wrists, and neck. Nay, she sported only Bjartur’s pendant, Finnin’s bracelet (if it could be counted as jewelry) and the beads in her hair. To her, these were worth more than every glittering gem in Minas Tirith.

She and Dori shuffled slowly across the long hall to where a score of men and dwarves sat in high-backed chairs around a sizable rectangular table. Ciryan hugged her right side, and Nori followed behind. 

Her body began to shake in earnest as it flashed all kinds of dire warnings. _Sit,_ it screamed, _or I will make you!_

Nay, she was not going to make the impression she would have preferred. Not even close. _So much for commanding respect._ In lieu of that, she’d have to trust that Aragorn was everything Barhador had told her. “Uncle,” she breathed. 

Dori darted a quick look her way. “I _told_ you it was too soon to be out of bed,” he complained under his breath before hurrying them along, his arm again accepting most of her weight. When her knees buckled, Ciryan jumped in. As if planned, the two carted her the rest of the way, each holding one leg with her arms draped over their shoulders. 

A more ignominious entrance could not have been possible. A part of her moaned with shame, but the rest began to find perverse humor in the situation when Nori hustled past, grabbed one of the few unoccupied seats, and pulled it away from the table. Saldís found herself unceremoniously dumped into the seat by her nadad and Dori. 

“My lady,” Saldís directed towards Dís with cool dignity, suppressing an inappropriate desire to snicker.

Dís’s lips twitched. “Nice of you to join us, Saldís, daughter of Bifur.”

“And Fandes,” Thannor amended with rich humor. “I had not expected such an entry, Cousin. It is good to see you up and about.”

Saldís blew a strand of hair that had fallen into her face out of her way and abandoned any attempt at decorum. “Thank you, Cousin. I myself would have preferred to remain abed, but my sickroom was invaded by over a dozen distraught teenagers.” She folded her hands and set them on the table. To the rest of the table’s occupants, she directed, “I believe the lot of you are to blame for that.” 

Bodies short and tall, thin and stocky stiffened. 

Saldís didn’t await their response. She turned to the head of the table and focused on the imposing man standing there. She had no doubts as to who he must be. “King Aragorn…” She cleared her throat and found it tight. Mahal, but the little she’d heard from her Novices spoke of a great debt owed to this man. What he’d done for Yanar—and for herself—tipped the scales into sainthood. There was no reason he should have expend himself for an Arcanist like Yanar nor a woman with a past like hers. 

She owed him. In a soft voice, holding his gaze, she said, “Words cannot express my gratitude for what you’ve done. For Yanar and the children, but also for me. Thank you.” She managed a wobbly smile. “I may not look it, but I am a Longbeard. I don’t forget my debts.”

“Hear, hear,” Dís murmured.

To the two standing behind the king, Saldís next said, “Yanar, Hennah, it is a relief to find you two survived as well. I hope you are protecting the king well.”

“We are,” Hennah said with a tiny smile. 

“Good.”

It seemed to Saldís that both stood taller, especially when Aragorn added his approval to Saldís’s through a regal dip of his head. 

Aragorn impressed her. He had an air of command about him similar to Cavendor’s, but where Cavendor ruled through force and terror, this Aragorn exuded instead an iron will tempered by compassion and fairness. Though no crown adorned his head, there was no mistaking his identity. 

Had Saldís’s life turned out differently, had Fandes escaped and reached her kinsmen, this man would have possessed her absolute loyalty. He might yet, though not undivided. Dís would always have the tightest grip on Saldís’s fealty, and after her Dwalin. Aragorn, however…Aragorn could well hold the third spot. 

“Kinswoman,” Aragorn greeted warmly. “At last we meet.” He studied her for a moment, she thought with a healer’s eye for details. Only then did he ask with a touch of concern, “Distraught teenagers?”

Saldís sagged in her chair. Her own conclusions about this man were confirmed by Thannor and Dís’s demeanor. She felt it safe and prudent to put her cards out on the table for all to see. “Nahir overheard half of a sentence you uttered, my king. That led him to believe you were discussing what to do with my Novices as if disposing of a burden…and _without_ any care for their druthers.”

Thannor rubbed his face. Aragorn and many of the others adopted expressions of dismay. 

“That didn’t happen,” Yanar said forcefully.

Saldís smiled at him. “So I concluded, Yanar. Be at peace. It is fear fueled by confusion. It isn’t completely unexpected.” 

“B-but _I’m_ here,” the sole hobbit sputtered, sitting up tall. “Did they think I would sit here in friendship with mean who meant them harm?”

Saldís shook her head. “Master Merriadoc, yes?” At his nod, she said, “You are the reason I didn’t have three dozen in my room. You, Thannor, and…Golodir?”

A man part way down the table and across from Thannor lifted his hand. “That would be me.”

“Sivva speaks very highly of you,” Saldís told him in all seriousness. 

“As I think of her,” Golodir said. 

Saldís believed him. 

“They woke you up?” Yanar said with a sigh. 

Before Saldís thought out her answer, she found her lips blabbing, “They didn’t do the actual waking, no. They charged into the room to do the demanding.” 

Really? That was her answer? This was _not_ the time or place to be gushing on about Finnin’s kissing skills!

She hurried on before anyone requested she explain. Her uncles had yet to hear the tale, and if they learned of it, she’d be teased relentlessly for months. _Years,_ a part of her corrected. No doubt they’d echo Urien and his “love’s kiss” prattle. 

“The point,” she directed mostly to Aragorn, “is that though loyal to you, these teens have spent most of their lives unable to trust anyone. They are trying to adjust, but a life’s worth of conditioning cannot simply be set aside. They need anything touching on them to be discussed openly. Please, my king, we cannot allow room for doubts to fester.”

Aragorn nodded slowly. A man near to him did the same, one with auburn hair and one hand to his chin. “It is good,” Aragorn said softly, “that you awakened when you did, for them as well as your family. Please, tell us what you would recommend.”

“No one was trying to get rid of them,” Merry said as if he couldn’t contain himself a second longer. “Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.”

Saldís blinked. “Oh?” She turned to Dís automatically.

Her blue eyes twinkling, Dís explained, “You just missed the sight of most of Middle Earth’s upper echelons arguing over who might have the honor and privilege of adding your young warriors to their communities.”

By Saldís’s side, Ciryan startled. Saldís cocked her head to him and thought a moment before directing to the assembly, “What has been decided?”

“Nothing,” Aragorn said with finality. “They are our kinsmen. I’d prefer them to remain here. The Dunedain will be summoned to Minas Tirith to join me, and Esteldin will be abandoned. I admit I would like to see the Novices taken in by my people, but Mablung, here…” He gestured to a man to his left, “has reminded me that the Novices are closer in relation to the Rangers of Ithilien since it is their women who were stolen a century ago.”

“Meanwhile, I stated that Thorin’s Hall would welcome any of them that wish a home with us, and Prince Imrahil here has offered the same,” Dís said. The man opposite her inclined his head. 

“The Blacklocks, too, will open their doors to any who ask it,” the dark dwarf next to Dís said softly. Dark brown eyes met Saldís’s. “If any wish not to be near the world of men any longer.”

Aragorn placed his hands atop the back of his chair. “As you hear, there are none barring their doors to them except perhaps… Eomer, what say the Rohirrim?”

A tall, well-build blond man smiled wryly. “Rohan would be honored to take in any of them. I’m sure I speak for all of my people when I say we were impressed by the Novices’ bravery upon the battlefield. My only hesitation is the shorter span of our years.” His smile wilted. “We are not blessed with the blood of Numenor, my people. I would not wish the grief of losing all of one’s friends and family on anyone. I am not sure a life with us would be a gift in the long term.” 

“I had not thought of that,” Prince Imrahil said, rubbing his brow, his elbow upon the table. “My king, I am unsure Dol Amroth would prove much more of a blessing than Rohan. The blood of Numenor among my kin is all but spent. The children would outlast any peers among my people as well.”

“This is what I propose,” Aragorn said after a brief pause. “The children will choose for themselves, those old enough to do so.” Heads up and down the table nodded, Saldís’s included. “The infants and toddlers are not capable of making such decisions, and there are more of them than my people, or yours, Mablung, can handle.”

Mablung lifted a hand, surrendering to that argument. 

“Some will have relatives,” Ciryan broke in as if uncertain of his right to interrupt but determined to have his say. At Aragorn’s lifted brows, Saldís’s nadad, continued, “There are records. The women from the Den may not know… Actually, I bet they _don’t_ want to know. But the women who worked the Nursery would have the information about who fathered and mothered each child.”

“He’s right,” Saldís confirmed, her eyebrows flying upwards. “Good thought, Nadad.” To the men again, she continued, “To prevent inbreeding, records were kept. The youngest children may know of siblings—the information does get out as with me and Valkthor, but most have been conditioned not to care about such ties. They may have family to reunite them with. Mablung’s people, for one.” 

The man nodded with clear gratitude. “We would be overjoyed to have the children or grandchildren of our stolen womenfolk returned to us.”

That would help. Saldís pursed her lips with furrowed brow. “I would like to keep siblings together if at all possible,” she ventured, feeling her way. “I would hate to separate them only to later contend with any of them, after learning what family truly is, lament being separated from theirs.”

Aragorn and Dís were already nodding their agreement. “It sounds,” Dís said lightly, “as if this conversation is premature. We must wait for those from Dol Hamoth and Umbar to join us and bring with them word of lineage. In the meantime, I suggest you, Saldís, advise the Novices here to approach myself, Vestin, Aragorn and the others. Encourage them to spend time with the Rangers of Ithilien as well as the Dunedain. Explain to them that in the end, what people they will live among will be their choice.”

So be it. With one caveat. 

But first, she had to see for herself how things stood.

OoOoOo

One hour later, Ciryan watched his sister like a hawk as they left the prison ward accessed by a long, brick tunnel that bored into the mountain on Minas Tirith’s fifth level. She’d done it. She’d feigned strength as she’d addressed the nine Novices who had refused to turn on the Duumrvirate. She’d stood tall, every inch Ib-Saldís as she’d coolly informed them of Sauron’s defeat and the fall of Caeldor.

Five had blustered and refused to believe her. Three had believed but glared at Ciryan’s sister with murder in their eyes. One of those had even spit at her. (He’d almost gotten Ciryan’s fist rammed down his throat for it, too.)

The ninth had ignored everyone and everything. He’d been seated with his back to the bars of his cell, his knees drawn up and arms looped around them. Ciryan hadn’t known what to make of Lissier’s silence. The blond haired, pale eyed teen was calculating—well, he had to be to survive as long as he had, he and Yanar both—but he wasn’t stupid. Ciryan figured Lissier might throw in with them, but if he did, it was because it served his interests. Ciryan doubted the teen would ever do anything not to Lissier’s benefit.

The instant Ciryan’s namad had been out of sight of the Novices, Dori had scooped her into his arms. Saldís hadn’t protested one bit, proof to Ciryan of how exhausted she was. She curled into Dori’s embrace, rested her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. 

In short, she left herself completely vulnerable and trusted them to protect her. 

It was just a little thing. One simple act of trust. But it shook Ciryan to his core. _Family._

So that was what it meant. He’d known, kind of. He’d watched Dori and Nori together and Bifur with Bofur. He’d witnessed the ribbing and gruff affection between them, but in that moment, in that dim hallway that looked more like a cellar or a catacomb, he finally understood. 

His lips curved upwards. This was _his_ family, and since his sister was ill, he’d be standing guard as he knew Nori was doing. 

Being a part of a team with the other Novices had changed his life. His teammates still had his loyalty, but this? This was bigger. Deeper.   
Something in his core settled. Any remaining uncertainties he’d had about his place in the world evaporated. 

“What do we do about them, do you think?” he asked Dori in a whisper so as not to disturb his sister. Ciryan assumed she had nodded off.

He was wrong. “I have some ideas,” she murmured sleepily. Her head never lifted. Her eyes didn’t open. 

“I’m hoping they’re better than the rest o’ the Black Company’s ideas,” Nori commented from behind Dori, his eyes on their surroundings and his fingers twiddling with his favorite dagger. 

Saldís’s lips twitched. “’M hoping so. No easy answer with them. They’re dangerous.”

_“Not_ the most reassuring of statements,” Nori observed.

“Do you need a hug?” 

Ciryan’s eyes rounded, but Dori’s instant chortle told him she was teasing. It was something Ciryan was slowly growing accustomed to. 

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, one would be nice,” Nori sassed back.

Ciryan decided to try some teasing of his own. “Fine,” he said as if pressed into some terrible duty. He spun upon a heel, opened his arms and closed in on Nori’s location. “I didn’t know dwarves would be so much work or need so much coddling.”

Dori and Saldís burst into laughter. Nori narrowed his eyes at Ciryan and then swatted him on the arm. “Cheeky,” the dwarf grumbled. He followed it up with a wink. “Knew you had it in you. Bofur will be happy.”

Saldís snorted. “Poor Ciryan,” she drawled around a yawn, her voice sleepy. “Corrupted by this family’s terrible sense of humor.”

Dori harrumphed. “I’ll have to agree with you there, Niece,” he said sadly, but Ciryan was sure Dori’s eyes twinkled. 

“As entertaining as this is,” Nori said after a short pause, “I’m still waiting to hear this grand plan o’ yours.”

In the end, they had to wait. Saldís had fallen sleep.

OoOoOo

Bifur and Ciryan watched over their lass the rest of that day. She ate heartily of the soups the healers permitted her and slept like a log. Her color improved. She breathed deeper. All good signs, to Bifur’s mind.

Bifur’s daughter was healing. Her love had survived. His son gained confidence and assurance of his place within their family by the day. A dwarf couldn’t ask more than that. 

The next morning, Saldís woke late but with new strength. His Gedûl’s eyes were clearer, brighter. There was renewed purpose to her carriage, and while he noted her difficulties in holding anything in her right palm—the fingers worked well enough, but the hand did not seem to want to grasp—the quaking of her limbs had ceased. She no longer appeared ready to topple over with a stiff wind. 

Bifur was one blessed dwarf, and that was a fact, so he had no reason, really, for the kernel of unease that bloomed in his belly when his daughter turned to him over the table they shared in the healers’ canteen and said, “Adâd? I need you to accompany me this morning.” 

No reason at all. 

But for the way her eyes slid away from his.

Or the note of strain in her voice. 

Ciryan picked up on it too. _Smart lad._ His spoon paused part way to his lips. His silvery-gray eyes narrowed.

“Aye?” Bifur asked lightly, as if he was a right fool and missed all the warning signs. “Where is it we’ll be going?”

Saldís delayed. She _stalled._ That only heightened his alert. He’d not like her purpose. ‘Twas plain as day. “To see the king,” she said after she’d finished chewing and swallowed. 

Ciryan’s eyes flew to Bifur’s, and the lad’s right brow hiked upwards. _Do I ask?_

Bifur subtly shook his head, a feat he only managed since his daughter was avoiding looking him in the face. _Nay. Wait._ “Alright, Gedûl. We’ll see the king.”

‘Twas easier than Bifur had expected. Saldís presented her request to a Tower Guard, word was sent to the king, and within the hour, Bifur found himself walking beside his daughter onto a terrace where Aragorn spoke over a parchment-strewn table to Lord Faramir. The instant Aragorn spotted them, Faramir excused himself, bowed to his king, and with a nod to Saldís and Bifur, departed. 

Ciryan wasn’t with them. Saldís had asked her nadadith to watch over Finnin. ‘Twas an excuse, and both members of her family had known it, but since Bifur would be with her, Ciryan had consented to be excluded, though not without a ferocious frown. 

_Now, let’s see what this is about,_ Bifur thought as they two strode to the king. 

“Saldís, Bifur, how are you both feeling?” Aragorn asked. As much as the man was king, Bifur suspected Aragorn would always be a healer first. 

Bifur lifted his shoulders and nodded in a silent, _Well enough._

Saldís bypassed the question entirely. “My lord Aragorn, thank you for seeing us.”

“Of course. Would you like a seat?” He gestured to a cluster of hairs to one side of the terrace. 

Saldís glanced at Bifur in askance, but he shook his head. Something told him to keep his feet beneath him. What, he silently wondered, was his daughter about? And why did she believe he wouldn’t be happy about it?

“How can I be of assistance, kinswoman?” the king asked. ‘Twas gently enough said, but the king watched her shrewdly. Aye, and he, too, had picked up on her strange mood. It was as if Saldís was bracing herself, readying herself for a blow. 

Saldís exhaled gustily. Wind teased strands of her hair free of the tie she’d used to contain it at the base of her neck and batted her nose and cheek. She glanced over the terrace railing and out across the city. “I went to visit our nine Novice prisoners yesterday.”

Aragorn darted a short glance Bifur’s way before facing her again. “Something disturbed you?”

She stepped to the terrace railing and set her left hand upon it. “I overheard some talk among your guards.”

_Aye?_ Ciryan had made no mention of any problems to Bifur.

Aragorn waited patiently for Bifur’s daughter to get to her point. 

She took a deep breath and faced the king. “They are suspicious, and rightfully so. Those children are dangerous. You know that. You both,” she corrected with a glance that finally included Bifur, “know that. Neither of you, however, can fully appreciate it, I don’t think. You never experienced Caeldor.”

Aragorn flicked a few fingers, conceding the point. Bifur merely waited. Where was she going with this? She was telling them naught they did not already know.

“I came away with two conclusions. One, they cannot remain here.” She paused as if waiting for disagreement. When none came, she continued. “I mean no disrespect to you or your Rangers, my king. These children are bred and trained to kill. If they cannot lay hold of a weapon, they’ll create one.” She rubbed her lamed hand with the hale one absently, her brow furrowed. “I doubt we can reform all nine. We will be fortunate to save half.” Her gaze sharpened as it lifted to the king’s. “They must go to Thorin’s Hall with Princess Dís…and me. And there is where we have a problem.”

_Eh?_ Bifur and Aragorn shared a second glance. Neither, Bifur concluded, was following her logic. To send the young ones to Thorin’s Hall? Bifur could see it. The mountain could contain them, protecting the world from the nine children much more effectively than a city of men. ‘Twas a fact, the children could not be kept in a prison cell indefinitely, not for following the training they’d endured, and Bifur suspected the best one to deal with the Novices was his Saldís. 

_And Dwalin._ If there was a dwarf capable and tough enough to win those wee ones’ respect, it was Dwalin. _And Nori is sly enough to keep watch on them._ Aye, Bifur could see the sense in his daughter’s reasoning. 

“The problem is me,” Saldís finally shared.

“You?” Aragorn said with brows high. Bifur rocked on his heels, brows low and gaze intent upon his Gedûl. What could she be going on abo— _Wait._ He knew his daughter. A niggling suspicion reared its head. 

“My king,” she said, facing the man squarely. “You are my chieftain, or you would have been had Fandes not died. You are also the king of Gondor, king of a people that I have wronged. My fear, my thought, is that I need to come to you for judgment.”

Bifur closed his eyes and forced himself to calm. Aye, ‘twas what he’d thought, and he couldn’t be more proud of the woman his Saldís had become. At the same time, he longed to paddle her behind for opening a barrel o’ worms that Bifur would have preferred to leave alone for as long as possible. 

“Saldís,” Aragorn began, but Bifur’s daughter was not so easily put off. _You’ll learn,_ Bifur thought at the king. There was stubbornness…and then there was a Longbeard’s stubbornness. 

“No, my king.” Her boots scuffed against stone as she stepped closer to the man. Bifur opened his eyes and watched as she dared touch Aragorn’s arm. “You are new to the throne, not yet crowned. Those from Dol Amroth certainly know of me. They know of my crimes. Knowledge of Gart’s words would have spread. There is no way to keep that hidden, and if you tried and it came to light, you would lose the respect of your people. I served the enemy for eighty years. I raided villages now under your care.”

“You have paid, kinswoman. You have suffered and bled in atonement.” Quiet words. Somber and kingly. 

Saldís lifted her left shoulder. “They don’t know that. For those who have family that may have died by my hands, it won’t matter. If I go free, they will see, and they will begin to hate you for it.”

Silence. _Mahal._ ‘Twas truth, and both Bifur and Aragorn knew it. 

Neither, however, would permit harm to come to her. Of that, Bifur was confident. _If I’m wrong, it’s over my shoulder you’ll be going, Gedûl, as I race from this city._

“You cannot be asking me to harm you,” Aragorn said in that same soft voice. 

“No,” Saldis said bluntly. Her lips tilted in a half smile. “All my life,” she said in a voice that shook with emotion, “I never dreamed I would find love.”

“Finnin,” Aragorn said with a trace of warmth and gentleness. 

“Finnin,” she agreed. Her smile died. “Maybe you find it strange or unnatural…”

Aragorn chuckled, drawing the eyes of both daughter and sire. “My lady, far be it from me to judge your love, for I myself will be wed to the daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. An elf. No, if anything, I have been eager for you and Finnin to meet my bride. Of all those in Middle Earth save perhaps Elrond, the two of you can understand and likely accept us best.”

That changed Bifur’s daughter’s countenance. She brightened visibly. “I look forward to meeting her.” She took another deep breath. “My words stand. Your people must be avenged. Justice must be had.”

Aragorn’s head tilted. “What is it you are asking of me?”

Saldís moved to Bifur and gently closed her hale hand around his bicep. “What I need from both of you is a fair solution.” Her eyes darted from Bifur to Aragorn. “I would dearly like to marry Finnin and be Ciryan’s sister. I want to spend my life surrounded by family, but I’m not sure it’s possible.”

“You _will_ be wedding him, _Nathith,”_ Bifur growled in Khuzdul, not about to permit doubts on that score to develop. “And ye’ll have a long, happy life.”

Her eyes lifted to his, and there, they locked. “I love you, Adâd,” she whispered. 

Bifur pulled his daughter’s head to him using the backs of his forearms and kissed her forehead. “I’m proud of you, Gedûl. So proud.”

“Service.” At Aragorn’s abrupt declaration, Bifur and Saldís faced the king. Bifur tucked his daughter to his side, uncaring at any discomfort. Besides, ‘twas naught when compared to what he’d endured during his trip from Mordor. 

“The answer,” Aragorn told them, “is service. Service to Gondor and its king.”

“What do you intend?” Saldís asked. 

Aragorn slowly walked to them. “Your penance, daughter of the Dunedain and Longbeards, will be in service. This will be my charge: until your Novices are grown— _all_ of them—you will play a part in their lives. When they are separated, most will likely reside here in Minas Tirith, in Thorin’s Hall, and in Ithilien within the new settlement Faramir and Legolas have discussed founding. You will spend your time among the three locations, coaching and counseling these lost sons and daughters of Numenor until they reach adulthood. It is my hope that most will find their way into families, but there will be things their families cannot hope to understand. You will.”

Bifur pursed his lips, mulling it over. Nay, ‘twas not the ending Bifur’s lass had clearly wished. It would require sacrifice on her part, for he knew her heart yearned for Ered Luin. ‘Twas there she had lived her happiest years, and ‘twas there she wished to be. 

But it was a good charge. Aye, Saldís _should_ mend some of what she’d permitted. In her refusal to stand up to evil, she’d been idle as more than one generation of Novices had suffered the training grounds of Caeldor. There was naught she could do to undo the damage she’d done to Gondor’s coastal villages, not unless Prince Imrahil asked her to join his fleet in hunting down pirates. (Instantly, Bifur recoiled from the idea. He’d not stand for that.) The children, however, she could help mold. Aragorn’s charge was a fitting one, and a charge Saldís would embrace wholeheartedly. 

“That won’t be enough for some,” Saldís said slowly as if hashing out the matter within her mind.

“You will be under my authority.” Aragorn clasped his hands behind his back. “Your conduct answerable to me.”

Bifur bristled. 

Aragorn smiled. “And Princess Dís,” he amended. 

Bifur subsided. 

Saldís exhaled. “You are certain? You wish to impose nothing more on me?”

A gleam of mischief entered the king’s eyes. “Would you prefer I chuck you over the railing?”

Bifur could have hugged the man. Saldís laughed the laugher of the unburdened. 

“It is enough,” Aragorn said. He stepped closer and lifted a hand to her shoulder. “Combined with your deeds with the Black Company, if you do this task for me, I will hold your debts to our people paid.”

Saldís saluted. “Thank you. _My_ king.”

“Bifur?” Aragorn called before daughter and father could depart. “I would speak with you alone for a moment.” He lifted one palm, halting Saldís’s objections. “I know he cannot speak Westron. What I need to say will not require words from your father.”

Bifur nodded his agreement, and Saldís departed. By now, Bifur figured that Ciryan would be in the area waiting for them. True, she’d not be in any danger within the king’s own lodgings, but Bifur bet himself a nice snooze-in the next morning that Ciryan would find Saldís before more’n a handful of minutes passed. 

Bifur joined the king at the terrace rail. 

“I have long thought upon what I would say to you, Bifur,” Aragorn said, his gaze upon his city. “Words of gratitude. Words of a debt that could not be paid.” Before Bifur could recover from his shock, Aragorn faced him. “I’ve heard it said that there is no greater love but than a man lay down his life for his friends. You sacrificed your life. You laid yours down not to death but to a life of service for a girl not even of your people. “

Bifur’s lips parted with an automatic disavowal. Loving his lass had _never_ been a sacrifice for Bifur. Not even during the long, terrible years after her disappearance. He was her Adâd. It had been an honor to shoulder that role. 

Aragorn lifted his hand, halting him. “I know what you would say, that there is no debt. I want to you to know, I want you to recall my words as you walk the streets of my city, that every person you see, from the humblest apprentice learning at a baker’s knee to the best dressed noble in his rich estate, all of them owe their lives and safety to you.”

Bifur shook his head emphatically, but the man didn’t listen.

“It is true.” Bifur was pinned in place by the piercing regard of this king of men. “If not for you, Saldís would either have died or been molded into a creature of irredeemable evil. If not for you, Middle Earth would have had no warning. The Black Company would never have formed. Caeldor and its Dens would even now be churning out its armies. Kimilzor would have survived to wage war on the rest of Middle Earth, and I would be dead and the Host with me. The Novices in this city and those being collected by Dol Amroth owe not just their freedom and future to you, but perhaps their very souls.”

Silence. Bifur fidgeted. All he’d done was love his daughter. No dwarf would have done less. 

“Thank you, my friend.” Aragorn knelt, his eyes watery in his sincerity, and gently collected Bifur’s splinted hands in his own. “For the future you saved for us, thank you.”


	72. Many Joys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Last chapter! To all who have followed and left feedback and kudos, thank you so much for taking this journey with me. It was a long one, I'll admit, lol. Whew! :)

The days marched by. Saldís found herself with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart—a Khuzdul ditty, more often than not—as she took walks with Adâd, enjoyed quiet talks with Finnin, and sweat profusely as she tried to return her body into proper condition with her nadad’s help. 

Much to Saldís’s relief—and that of Finnin's healers, she noted with silent laughter as they celebrated with champagne and tea cakes on one glorious day—Finnin mended sufficiently to be released from the Houses of Healing. He joined the rest of them in relocating to a cozy inn tucked away along the northeastern edge of the city’s fourth tier. ‘Twas not a grand lodging such as Aragorn had offered, but it suited Saldís’s family fine, and the other dwarves, too. (’Twas the truth, between Saldís’s family and the Blacklocks, they fair took the place over. If not for Thannor, Berenor, Yahzin, Erynor and Calenor, Saldís and her brother would have been two of only four men residing there.)

Finnin and Saldís continued to sleep curled up together, neither willing to be parted after coming so close to losing one another. Oh, ‘twas as chaste as if they were brother and sister—well, minus a few heated kisses—but she found she couldn’t rest peacefully without her warrior’s strong, warm presence at her side, and Finnin flat out refused to tolerate her absence. 

It was not the most acceptable of conduct, but since Finnin shared quarters with Finnur, and Saldís with Adâd and Ciryan, it was not the scandal it could have been. Dori, however, became a dwarf on a mission. He’d scoured Minas Tirith from top to bottom for the trimmings needed for a proper dwarf wedding and could be found most days fashioning the wedding clothes that neither Saldís nor Finnin had requested.

Finnin did, however, look pleased as punch at Dori’s progress. “Soon, _Bâhzundushuh,”_ he murmured in her ear one night ere they slept, the brush of his lips sending delicious shivers through her. “Soon, you’ll be my bride. Then, I’ll strip to my breeches, and barefoot with drum in hand, I’ll dance for you the Firebeards’ Dance of Marriage.”

“What is that?” she’d craned her head around to ask.

The hooded look Finnin had given her, his Tane eyes sizzling with heat, had scorched her clean through. She lost the ability to breathe. Her love’s chest had rumbled with his purr of contentment. “You’ll see,” was his cryptic reply. 

She’s slept that night and dreamed of things she’d never before imagined. 

And avoided everyone’s eyes for hours the next morning, her cheeks scarlet red. 

Dori sewed faster.

On the first of May, Aragorn was crowned King Elessar. Merry and his hobbit friends were honored by all of Minas Tirith for their bravery and sacrifices. The city vibrated with joy, and Saldís’s cheeks hurt, she smiled so much.

Parties and feasts were hosted on every tier of the city. Saldís’s Novices and many of the Rangers found their way to the fourth tier where Saldís and her kin celebrated. 

As the Novices’ commander, or so Finnin had murmured in her ear as he’d taken to doing a lot lately (she eyed him suspiciously, her cheeks again heating red), it was her duty to lead the way. Ergo, he hauled her onto the dance floor, taught her the steps and then they both dragged Novices into the fray with them. Saldís danced with a stunned Yanar (who slowly relaxed and embraced the festivities with gusto), a long-suffering Ciryan (who rolled his eyes, but she thought was secretly pleased), an exuberant Thyndo, and just about every male Novice she could lay hand on. Of them all, it was Gylmal who took to dancing like a bird to flight. He was soon in high demand by his female counterparts. 

Berenor, she rejoiced to see, lured Yahzin onto the dance floor, too. Thannor appeared overcome with emotion as he watched his son teach the newest member of their family how to dance.

Erynor and Calenor joined Bofur at a table and proceeded to drink themselves into a stupor. 

When the next day dawned, it was with equal excitement. The next day, those from Umbar and Dol Hamoth finally returned.

OoOoOo

Bifur snickered as Finnin unobtrusively sidled over to what had come to be Dori’s chair near the inn hearth. The almost completed wedding gown lay draped across Dori’s lap. Dori hummed as he worked, happier than Bifur had seen him since Ori had departed with Balin for Khazad-dum.

 _Finnin is getting antsy,_ Bifur decided as the lad adopted a very pleased expression by what he saw. Bifur took a long drink of his ale and leaned back in his seat at one of the inn’s dozen tables. 

By his side Bofur watched Finnin with lively amusement, a new hat upon his head—alas, it matched its ruined predecessor exactly, and Bifur thought they might have Nori to blame for that—and a pipe between his lips. “Ten gold says Dori’s done and our lass is wed by the end of the week.” 

Bifur grunted, not about to touch that bet. 

“What?” Ciryan asked, leaning into Bifur’s other side to see Bifur’s cousin. 

Bofur pointed at Finnin with his pipe. “That lad’s chomping at the bit,” he explained to Ciryan. “And our Saldís is little better. They’ll be married this week, or I’m no dwarf.”

Nori flicked Bofur’s had as he walked by. “With that hat? You’re no dwarf.” 

“That,” Bofur stressed loudly, the pipe now pointed at Nori’s back, “is just rude. It’s jealousy, I tell you. You’re settin’ greedy eyes on my hat!”

Nori waved one hand over his shoulder.

Bifur chortled. “Eat,” he told Ciryan in Khuzdul, gesturing to his son’s picked-at plate. “They arrive soon.”

Ciryan nodded. Coming along right well with his Khuzdul lessons, the boy, and father and son grew closer each day for the time spent together. The lad was easing up on his protectiveness as he settled in. He still watched over Bifur and Saldís both, but he no longer needed to hover so closely. Saldís and Finnin could actually go for a stroll without Ciryan succumbing to the need to track his sister down to ensure for himself that nothing had happened to her. 

Granted, it helped that Saldís again wore the scimitar her ugmil’adad had forged for her. She was well able to wield the blade left-handed. Combined with Finnin and his ax and the city guards scattered about the place, Ciryan had to concede that their lass was well protected. 

‘Twas as their meals were done and the tables cleaned that bright, silvery horns blew. Bifur was not the only soul to jump to his feet. The others had arrived. Duty called.

OoOoOo

Saldís and the Novices of Minas Tirith converged upon the main courtyard centrally located on the sixth tier as planned. Healers rushed to and fro from the nearby Houses of Healing, many ushering bleating nanny goats and milk cows into a holding pen adjacent to the Houses where most of the infants would be staying until bloodlines were determined and those with family to reunite them with were identified.

 _From one crisis to another._ Saldis felt a touch of pity and awe for the healers. First, they’d weathered the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the massive influx of wounded men from there. Before all of those men were healed, in rode those from the Battle of the Black Gates, cramming the Houses full to bursting with all kinds of injuries (and one obstinate dwarf). Now, they were being invaded by babies. 

Truly, one had to be fearless (or insane) to volunteer for a healer’s life.

 _Six hundred and eighty-three._ The number rattled around in her mind endlessly. So many children. A part of her had wondered secretly if she dared adopt a few for her own. She could not conceive. It made sense to do so. 

But she held back from permitting herself to picture it. What did she know of motherhood? And what would Finnin have to say? They’d not even married, and here she was, ready to pick out children as if they were curtains for their quarters. 

_Speak of the warrior._ Finnin and the other dwarves came into view, each helping transport last minute needs to the Houses of Healing from across Minas Tirith. She paused, captivated by the image of her soon-to-be mate hefting a large barrel over his shoulder, his muscles bulging. 

“You’re drooling.”

At Pippin’s whispered aside, Saldís startled and glared. Pippin trotted off laughing, leaving a sympathetic Merry in his wake. “I did warn you,” Merry said.

‘Twas true. He had. 

Conversation ceased as the first wagon of squealing babies arrived, carrying also golden-haired Medlinor. Thannor was quick to greet his friend and aid him from the wagon bed. Once he’d been extricated, Saldís joined others in lining up behind the healers to take her turn collecting a baby from its cushion- and fabric-padded basket. Over twenty of the baskets had been nestled into the space. 

_Why, they’re tiny,_ she thought with wide eyes as she hefted a wee lad into her arms. He shook his fists as he shrieked his displeasure, his face turning red. She recanted any desire to adopt one. She’d break it. 

And so it went. A wagon would roll onto the sixth tier, often with one of the Black Company riding along to supervise—Medlinor first, aye, but then Thalon, Kyri, Glinor, and lastly a glowing Goira along with a terribly disfigured Kai. When Kai had come into view, Dís, Bifur, Bofur, Nori, Dori, and Gimli had all stopped what they were doing and converged on the scene. When Kai waved one scarred hand in greeting, his love cuddled against his side, the courtyard resounded with dwarfish cheers. 

All the while, Novices, men and three elves continued collecting the little ones. Each baby was hustled into the Houses of Healing and the waiting cribs and bassinets that Bofur was largely responsible for. Once there, Saldís and the other volunteers would check each child’s swaddling for messes, make them as comfortable as they could, and rush off to collect another

When the toddlers arrived, things became more interesting. Each was full of questions. Some watched the goings-on with wide, frightened eyes (necessitating many words of reassurance and hugs), some chattered on nonstop as they clutched the person carrying them as if he or she was a lifeline. 

When the Novices arrived, those aged five to twelve, Saldís stepped away from transport duty, collected Gylmal, Tahal, Yanar, and Ciryan, and led the youngsters to what would be their temporary home: a barracks in the building right next to the older Novices. ‘Twas not ideal, but the children needed supervision in case any reverted to old habits. She would not tolerate the cruel games of Caeldor to start up afresh in the North. Golodir and Sivva had volunteered to move in with these Novices to ensure that did not happen. 

Once Saldís had all inside the barracks, she signaled for each child to choose a bed. “I hate the necessity of a barracks,” she confessed to Yanar and Ciryan. 

“It’s loads better than what we had in Caeldor,” Ciryan responded with a sympathetic glance. “And it’s temporary.”

True. She exhaled slowly, watching the kids try not to ooh and aah over the colorful blankets on each bunk or the matching stuffed toy upon each pillow courtesy of the good people of Minas Tirith. 

As Ciryan had said, this was better. The walls had been painted (Nori’s work along with Erynor and Calenor) with murals giving the kids tantalizing views of what their futures might hold. One section truly made one feel as if he was safely behind stone walls in Thorin’s Hall. Another showcased the plains of Rohan along with horses in full gallop with Rohirrim upon their backs. A third was a sea-scape such as Saldís had savored aboard the Black Vengeance, and the last depicted what Saldís could only assume were the meadows of Ithilien. 

Merry snuck in while the kids were still absorbing their surroundings. “Nothing to represent the Shire?” he asked, feigning disappointment.

“Unless you wish to take a dozen children home with you, Master Merriadoc…?” Yanar said. 

Merry hastily waved that away.

Yanar grinned. “Better not to tease them with what they can't have.”

“Fair enough,” Merry laughed. “But I do wish some of you would stop in and visit us someday. There is no place like the Shire. You must come.”

Yanar nodded. “I may take you up on that offer once my training is complete.”

“Training?” Saldis asked, eyebrows climbing.

Yanar eyed her uncertainly. “King Aragorn offered me a place within the newest class training to join the City Guard.” More hesitantly. “He offered it with the understanding that I will earn my way onto the Tower Guard…and eventually, I can officially be named his bodyguard.”

Saldís slowly smiled, and Ciryan grinned. “Congratulations, Yanar. Truly,” she said. “You have earned his trust and the whole team’s respect.”

His nod was all kinds of awkward. “I plan to guard the king anyway, and he knows it. He said we should make it official, but to do that, I have to prove to those already wanting that position that I deserve it.”

“You will,” Saldís said lightly. In her mind, there was no doubt. 

She stepped forward to address the young ones, but before she opened her mouth, the grousing of one of two boys sitting on a bunk nearest the door drew her attention. “I still say we shoulda gone after the older Novices,” the boy with straight brown hair and a ferocious scowl told the other. “Instead of babysitting,” he said, his thumb stabbing his own chest, “we could have helped save Middle Earth. We’re warriors, not child tenders.”

The boy with a full head of coiled black hair nodded. “You could’ve for sure, Zobi. Me? I’m just glad we got outta Caeldor before I ended up on an altar.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Saldís interrupted smoothly. “Zobi and…Hashad, isn’t it?”

Both boys startled and looked up at her with wide eyes. Then Zobi scowled. “I’d heard you wore the rune.” He gestured to the tattoo beneath her eye. “Wasn’t sure I believed it.”

“Believe it,” she answered. Then she issued a sharp whistle. In a louder voice, she said, “Alright, everyone. Gather round.”

Novices clambered onto the nearest bunks, only sitting upon beds and floor when Saldís gestured them to. Big eyes stared up at here with curiosity. Not, she was gratified to note, terror or hostility. 

“Before we begin,” she said on an exhale, “I have a story to tell you. You see, before I was Akhora, I went by the name of Saldís…”

As with the older Novices, she told them everything. _Mostly_ everything. These young ones didn’t need to hear about Gart or other particulars. She told them of Bifur and a childhood with Finnur as her best friend. She told them about being snatched away by Kimilzor and all that had happened afterward.

She then told them of Aragorn’s decision and how their futures would play out. 

“We get to choose?” a lad with shockingly black eyes against the palest hair she’d ever seen asked with an edge of hostility. 

“You do, Glivin,” Yanar assured. 

“So if one of the dwarves already offered me a home with him, no men will get in my way?” 

“No one will object,” Saldís assured, hoping privately she was right. Mahal knew it would be a mess if he had living relatives among the Rangers of Ithilien. In the end, it wouldn’t matter. She had promised these kids their choice, and her sword would back that up. She just hoped it didn’t come to that. Aragorn didn’t need that type of headache. 

Glivin subsided, much happier. A cute curly haired redhead climbed onto his lap, leaned into him and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Glivin hugged her. 

Whichever of the Black Company or Blacklocks had claimed Glivin, Saldís hoped he knew he’d also adopted a daughter. The two looked too happy together to be torn apart. 

“Now then,” Saldís said. “By a show of hands, I need to know if any of you have brothers or sisters either in here or with the babes and toddlers in the Houses of Healing.”

No less than thirty hands went up. With parchment and paper, Ciryan began to write down names.

OoOoOo

That night, Thannor and Yahzin were among those volunteering to watch the babes so that most of the healers could catch some sleep. A handful of Blacklocks kept them company as well as Finnin with a surprisingly reluctant Saldís. What, Thannor wondered, worried his cousin?

Thannor promised himself to seek her out later in privacy, then he returned to cooing at a crying baby boy, rocking the babe and hoping to lull him to sleep. When he lifted his head, he found his new daughter eying him with a peculiar expression on her face. “What is it?”

“Are you going to adopt more of us?” she asked, and for the life of him, he couldn’t glean anything from her voice. 

“I had not considered it,” he said truthfully. “It is not a commitment I would dare to make without your mother’s approval.”

Yahzin frowned, rocking the year old girl she held. The little one looked a lot like Yahzin, Thannor noted. She had blond hair and green eyes, though this one’s were a muted sage green, unlike Yahzin’s emeralds. “She didn’t approve of _me,”_ came in a voice so low Thannor almost failed to catch it. 

When he did, he crossed to his daughter’s side. He gently nudged her with his elbow. “With you, it was a foregone conclusion. You are much like my Ioleth,” he said lightly. “Once she finishes welcoming you into our home, I will get lectured for failing to rescue our daughter sooner.”

Yahzin frowned. “But you didn’t know me.”

“It won’t matter to Ioleth,” he responded dryly. Spying Yahzin’s continuing disturbance, he said, “What is it that really worries you?”

“Sharing,” she admitted at last, a touch ashamed. “I just got you and Berenor. I don’t… I know I shouldn’t feel… I…”

“Stop.” She stopped. “You are my daughter whether Ioleth and I step in to help take care of these little ones or not. More than likely, some of these will end up in the family…” He overrode Yahzin’s gasp. “…because your older sister, Haedrin, is of an ideal age and temperament to adopt. They would be your nieces and nephews, Yahzin. Not your brothers or sisters.”

She nodded, then she bit her lip. “Do you mind?”

“I am content with the children I have,” he said. “You have completed our family.” With the back of one hand, he caressed her cheek. “Now stop worrying.”

OoOoOo

Finnin snuggled in behind his soon-to-be _(Mahal, let it be soon)_ bride, his arms around her waist, and his head raised so that he could look down upon her. The position strained his belly some, but the flesh was knitting well now. He was in no danger of it ripping apart.

The room was quiet, dark. Finnur had nodded off over an hour ago, and Finnin was of a mind to be joining him, but something was keeping his lass awake. If he’d been of men, he’d never have been able to see her face—mayhap what she’d been counting upon?—but being of the Khazâd, he saw the frown lines upon her forehead and easily read the turmoil in her eyes. 

He kissed her shoulder and murmured, “What is it that troubles you, Dushin-Mizim?”

Saldís startled, her eyes flying to him, though he suspected she only saw his silhouette. “Noth—”

His kiss halted her lying words. When it ended, he murmured, “I know better than that. You’ve been fretting all night. Is it about the wee ones?”

 _That’s an aye,_ he thought as she tensed. Why, though, did she hide it? 

“Finnin…” She paused, more uncertain of expression than he’d ever seen her. “You know I cannot have children.”

“Aye,” he agreed. What was this…? 

His eyes flared. _You’re a thrice-dipped fool, Finnin son of Finnar._ His lady could not bear children, yet she’d spent all day with them? “If you think it makes you less in my eyes…” he growled.

She snorted, half turning so that his hands remained around her waist but her shoulders reclined against the mattress. “Nay,” she said. “Not you. I know I hold your heart.”

Well. That was reassuring. 

She sobered. Her left hand pressed to his cheek, and he kissed it. “I need to ask you something.”

“Aye?”

“Would you be adverse to adopting a few of the children?” She hastened to add, “If you say you’d rather not, I’m fine with—”

His next kiss was fit to sear a dwarf’s beard clean off. When they broke apart, he said, “Aye. If you’re wanting a family, I’m in full agreement.”

“What about my sentence?”

Daft woman. “What about it?”

She huffed. “We’ll be traveling back and forth across Middle Earth for the next twenty years.”

“With,” he stressed, “your adâd and likely Dori and Nori most of the time. Ciryan, too.”

“You can count me in as well,” Finnin’s blasted brother interjected. 

“Finnur!” he snapped.

“It _is_ my niece or nephew you’re talking about,” Finnur said grumpily. “Besides, you two were not exactly speaking quietly. I assumed this was a family-wide conversation.”

Saldís, the traitor, laughed into Finnin’s shoulder. 

“As I was saying,” Finnin said with the air of one badly put upon and a glare at his brother. He faced his lady and gentled his tone. “Aye. I’d like that. A son or wee daughter.”

“Even if he or she is a Númenórean?”

“Even then,” he agreed. “I’m finding myself partial to the good ones.”

He felt her smile against his skin. Saldís then lifted her head. “How are we to choose? Finnin, there are so many of them.”

Finnin shrugged. “We wait. Mahal will choose them for us.”

“Mahal?” Saldís and Finnur both echoed in disbelief. 

“Mahal.”

OoOoOo

In the four days that followed, Finnin joined Saldís as she went about her day. First thing in the morning, they gathered the teenaged Novices in another of Minas Tirith’s endless courtyards to discuss whatever matters were on the teens’ minds. Most often, their questions pertained to the decision facing them all. If they chose to live with the Rangers of Ithilien, what if they later regretted it and wanted to join the dwarves? What if they couldn’t decide?

She and Finnin spent hours with them, responding to what questions they could. Others would have to be addressed by Aragorn and Faramir, and she made a point of seeking both men out so that they could arrange their own meeting with the teens. 

After that, Finnin accompanied her as she checked on the other children. She introduced him to the younger Novices, and her warrior quickly proved how amazing he was. Finnin was an endless fount of patience. The children learned swiftly that he didn’t mind their questions, and soon, he had them gathered around him, pressing close to hear his words. 

As Dís had speculated, the children were swifter to let down their guard around a dwarf or hobbit (they came to adore Pippin just as much as Merry) than with men. The Rangers, the children accepted, but it was with a quieter reserve. The Rangers, they watched closely for any sign of duplicity. 

Finnin, she thought as she watched her love on the fourth day, had been born to be an adâd. He sat on the floor with a storybook he’d borrowed from Minas Tirith’s library, and though many of the young Novices were uncertain what was expected of them, they were soon entranced with the story Finnin read…until the main character, a young lad of Gondor, proved so inept and foolish as to be unbelievable. The lad’s crime: he couldn’t wield a sword.

 _We’ll need new stories for them,_ she mused as Finnin blinked to find his rapt audience vanishing on him. When he glanced at her, she covered her smile with one hand. 

She got a rogue’s smile in return. Aye, Finnin would be an amazing adâd…but she also suspected he’d be an outstanding lover and husband. Saldís was ready to verify that for herself.

OoOoOo

One day later, Aragorn summoned Saldís (and, oddly, Finnin) as well as Princess Dís to what had become the king’s conference room of choice, a smaller room off of the Citadel’s main hall. Saldís could not focus. She shot Finnin glances out of the corner of her eye, her right hand very aware of the larger one enfolded around it. More and more, she found herself in this same state, hypersensitive to his words and touch. Her thoughts were filled with Finnin and the growing need to touch him, to explore his body more thoroughly.

 _Orc spit._ How long could it take to sew one dratted dress? She vowed to press the matter that evening with Dori.

As they entered the room on the heels of Mablung, Damrod, and Anborn, Saldís schooled her straying mind to attention. This day was not about her girlish dreams. _(Lustful fantasies,_ an inner voice corrected.) It was about matching the children to their families and figuring out how to keep siblings together. It would be about beginning lists that would grow as Novices decided where they wished to spend what remained of their childhood years.

Aragorn greeted each person as he or she entered. Saldís saluted him and then turned her attention to Princess Dís, who smiled at her. “Come sit by me, you two.”

Dís didn’t wait for them to finish sitting before she directed to Aragorn, “How confident of their facts are they, King Elessar?” Dís asked with ill concealed excitement. 

Aragorn smiled. Saldís glanced from princess to king and back again. Aragorn informed Dís with open palms, “They are as certain as they can be.”

Instantly, Dís smiled at Saldís, and Saldís edged closer to Finnin. ‘Twas a shark’s smile the princess sported, the same smile Saldís had seen when she and Dís had had that chat in Thorin’s Hall. Aye, Dís was scheming something. 

Dís folded her hands on her lap. “I had a chat with Finnur a few mornings ago.”

Saldís closed her eyes, groaning. Finnin sighed and wrapped his arm around her. “I swear, my brother has a mouth that never stops running.” 

“True,” Dís said. “Finnur does not have an off valve, but in this, he has done you a favor. Mahal has answered your prayers.”

Saldís’s eyes shot open. Finnin tensed. 

“Aragorn and I were reviewing the bloodlines. As you know, we wish to unite as many of the young with their kin as we can,” she said, and Saldís bobbed her head in agreement. “Low and behold, we find Ciryan was not the last of Kimilzor’s offspring.” 

“What?” Saldís’s spine snapped straight, and Finnin went very still. 

Dís’s voice gentled. “You have half siblings in need of a home, Saldís. If you are willing to accept his get, I know they could not ask for a better home.”

But… But… Her first, instinctive response was panic. She was not ready! 

It lasted all of two beats of her heart. It was quickly displaced by something stronger, more primitive. Images of Caeldor and the training sands filled her mind. The horror. The bloodshed and pain. She wished nothing so much as to find her siblings, put them behind her, and ensure that past never touched them. These unknown brothers or sisters? They would _never_ experience what she and Ciryan had. Never. She would make sure of that.

But what did she know of parenting? Protecting them with a sword, she could do. But to raise them?

“We haven’t yet married,” Saldís managed. Her eyes chased down Finnin’s and found him…smirking? 

“Told you so,” he whispered. “Mahal chose.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Dori’s almost got the dress done.” He studied her a moment. “My brave raven…afraid?”

“I’ll admit to some nerves,” she corrected. “Finnin, what if I’m a terrible mother?”

“Not possible.”

“Possible,” she argued.

“Not possible,” he repeated. “Not with the example to follow that you’ve had.”

Adâd. There, he had her. Could she do this? Could she be like Bifur? _Yes,_ her heart whispered. Yes, she could and would. One child, she’d have felt better about, but she could deal with two, if just barely. 

She faced Dís. “Where are they? Who are they?”

Aragorn joined them and squatted on his ankles, hands dangling between his knees. “Two girls and one little boy,” he said. 

_Three?_ her mind clanged. She changed her mind. She was not Adâd. She was a Weapon and warrior. She was not meant to be a mother…and now she was supposed to manage not one child, not two, but three? Had Mahal never heard of easing one into a new challenge? Did the Maker not realize that she and Finnin would be outnumbered?

Aragorn continued on as if blind to her panic. His voice grew distorted by a strange rushing sound. “Two are toddlers and— _Saldís!”_

She fainted dead away.

OoOoOo

It happened with such suddenness, Saldís was left reeling. She awoke back at the inn with a grinning Finnin leaning over her and a quiet Bifur and Ciryan behind him. They were in the room she shared with Adâd and Ciryan, and she took a moment to absorb that she—a Weapon, Durin curse it—had _fainted._ Not from blood loss, not from poison or the sight of a troll storming towards her with club in hand, but because she’d just found herself responsible for three young children.

“My wee love,” Finnin crooned, his grin growing. Laying on the bed next to her, he was, and quite pleased with himself. “Faces down an army of men without flinching, but show her a babe…” The rest was lost to a squawk as she hit him in the face with her pillow. 

It seemed she blinked, and she sat in the inn’s dining area with Nori, Dori, Bofur, Erynor and Calenor for company. “It makes sense,” Saldís said as she wrestled to come to terms with the morning’s revelations. Even to herself, her voice sounded shell-shocked. “The stronger the person, the more the Duumvirate wanted his offspring. Of course they would have wanted Kimilzor to have more children.”

Ciryan nodded absently, his own expression on the stunned side while their uncles and cousins beamed in excitement.

Another blink, and Saldís’s arms were full with a six month old boy who’d yet to be named. (A fact that had filled her with outrage and indignation. ‘Twas a good thing for the nurses from Caeldor that they hadn’t been in reach, for Saldís had been angry enough to flay them with her tongue. Or maybe punch one or two.) The wee, brown haired boy with green eyes waved the rattle some soul had given him, cooing in contentment, while she tried to figure out just how she’d become responsible for him. 

_She_ was to mold him into a productive, civilized member of society? _She?_

Finnin carried four year old Thera. The girl shared her little brother’s sharp green eyes, but her hair was a fiery red that hung in waves down her back. If her heart-shaped face was any indication, Thera was destined to be a beauty, and Saldís could not help but think upon what the girl’s fate would have been had the Black Company not come for her. (By Mahal, Saldís was determined to find Thannor later. She needed someone to hit, and she knew him in good enough condition to spar safely.)

Ciryan carried their two year old. Anniah was rounder of face that her sister, and her brown eyes seemed huge as they traveled from Saldís to Finnin to Ciryan. Each time one of them tried to meet her gaze and smile, she ducked her head into Ciryan’s shoulder with a tiny gasp. Her hair was a coal black fall of silk, as straight as a sheet, and her skin was a warm bronze. 

She reminded Saldís, oddly enough, of the slain Ziphora. Saldís tried very hard not to think that in losing the brave Novice, she might have lost another sister. (There was no need to endanger Thannor more that night than necessary.)

Later, she and Finnin bunked their small brood down in the room Saldís shared with Ciryan and Adâd. Their boy was tucked into one of the bassinets from the Houses of Healing next to the wall where Saldís intended to set up a pallet that night. The two girls, plainly exhausted from the emotional day, fell asleep on what had been Saldís’s bed as soon as their heads hit their pillows. 

“Three. It’s a good number, my bonny lass,” Finnin murmured in her hair line just outside the door. Though Saldís feared to let any of her…siblings?…children?…out of her sight for fear some dread danger would find them, she knew Finnin would station himself just outside the room. He’d guard their new family so that she could hunt down Thannor. 

“Aye,” she told him before kissing her love.

OoOoOo

Before Thera, Anniah, and the babe (now named Bifin in honor of his Adâd and ugmil’adad) had gotten used to their new life and family, Saldís blinked again, and it was her wedding day. The largest forge in Minas Tirith was prepared by Nori and Bofur, the wedding vestments were completed and pressed by Dori, and Saldís along with her girls were hustled off by Princess Dís, a bewildered Yahzin, and Goira for bathing and primping.

“Excited?” Dís murmured as she brushed Saldís’s hair while Yahzin and Goira did the same for Saldís’s daughters. 

Saldís glared at her weakly within the mirror, causing the princess to chortle. Dís knew full well her state. Saldís had endured missions that had required hours of perfect stillness, yet this day, the ability completely eluded her. She couldn’t sit still to save her life.

“A far journey, you’ve come,” Dís said. “I remember a lass who told me she’d never be capable of this.”

Mahal. Had she truly been so deluded? Saldís couldn’t imagine how she thought she’d ever resist a male such as Finnin. “Thank you,” she said, meeting Dís’s eyes. 

Dís lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I did little but share my own experiences. It is you who did the hard work. You and Finnin both.”

Dís finished brushing Saldís’s hair, and they moved on. There would be no elaborate hairstyles this day, not for Saldís and not for her two girls. Each would be getting a new braid courtesy of husband (for Saldís) and adâd (for the girls). The couple had discussed it and decided to immediately follow their wedding vows with the adoption ceremony, thereby solidifying their family. 

Saldís was helped into a sleek gown with a neckline that showcased Bjartur’s pendant. Dark blue, the gown was—Saldís had been overjoyed to learn that the Khazâd married in House colors, not the insipid white favored by Gondorians—and it had long sleeves that could be tied back for safety reasons. Her daughters were helped into matching dresses with short sleeves, flared skirts, lace panels and plenty of embroidered flowers along neckline and hem. 

Saldís smiled wickedly the instant she saw the dresses, memories of Dori’s attempts to stuff her into something similar floating in her mind. _You may think you’ve won, uncle of mine, but it’s not over yet._ Her girls might own dresses, but they were not… They weren’t…

 _Never mind._ Thera was in ecstasy the second she was dressed and standing before a full length mirror. With her emerald eyes huge, she spun about, clearly in love with the green, froofy monstrosity Dori had created for her, and Anniah not far removed from her sister’s state. She stepped up to the mirror and jumped up and down a few times, clapping as her golden yellow skirts danced around her ankles. Both girls, Saldís thought with a welling up of emotion, were destined to melt hearts. 

_And Caeldor had almost had them!_ As soon as the horrifying thought occurred, another intention was birthed. If her girls liked skirts, Saldís would resign herself to it, but by his Maker, Dori would be concocting dresses a girl could fight in. 

And that, she told her reflection with a hard nod, was that. 

The party walked to the wedding location on the city’s sixth tier as a group, the grinning Brothers acting as escorts. Yahzin peppered Goira with questions about the ceremony she’d be witnessing while Dís and Saldís herded Thera and Anniah to their destination. 

“They are bound to steal hearts,” Berenor said in a low voice as Thera claimed Anniah’s hand and tried to show the younger girl how to skip. 

“I trust you’ll help me murder any man who looks at them lustfully when they reach puberty?” Saldís asked.

“Count on it.” He shot her a small smile. “I’ll have practice by then, so I’ll be set.”

Saldís was slow to realize his meaning, but when she did, she laughed. “Yahzin.”

Berenor shrugged. “She may be lethal, but she’s still my kid sister.”

“Does Yahzin have any idea what she’s in for?”

“No.”

Saldís would forever remember the warmth emanating from the forge as they stepped into the stone square. Its heat was bearable, its intensity curbed, for unlike the forges in Thorin’s Hall, those of Minas Tirith were constructed largely outdoors for their users’ comfort. For the wedding, Finnin and Bifur had scoured the city for the nicest and roomiest of the lot, and when she saw it, Saldís was not disappointed. The forge itself was scrubbed clean, and the stone pavers beneath her feet were smooth and gleaming. Paper lanterns hung from cords crisscrossing the space overhead, and high above them, Saldís saw the stars beginning to twinkle. 

Sunset was melting into night. The most auspicious time for a wedding (or so she’s been lectured) had arrived.

With her daughters left in the care of Dís, Yahzin, Thannor and the Brothers, Saldís slowly walked to where Finnin, Bifur and Dori waited by an anvil draped in garlands positioned a few paces away from the forge. As the eldest of her male relatives, it fell to Dori to conduct the ceremony.

 _Mahal,_ Saldís thought upon her first unobstructed view of her mate. The dwarf looked wondrously strong and virile. His shoulders and chest were both showcased by the cut of his vestments. His beard—for the first time in her adult life, Saldís almost squealed like a little girl—was contained in the braids he’d denied himself for so long. He was the image of a dwarf warrior in his prime, and when he saw her, he smiled. 

She purred. After this hour, he was hers for life, and that thought robbed her of the ability to breathe properly. She was the most blessed of females…ever…and well she knew it.

Like Saldís, Finnin was dressed in the midnight blues and mithril silvers symbolizing the Longbeard House and the line of Durin. Like Saldís, he too was assisted into a brand new blacksmith’s apron as soon as she reached the anvil, Dori helping Finnin and Adâd helping her. The aprons were littered with the well-wishes of their guests, so instead of simply sporting Khuzdul runes of blessing, Westron phrases could be found mixed in alongside them. 

Dori called the guests to order. Over the anvil, bride and groom joined their hands. Saldís took a deep breath. This was it.

Dori opened with a prayer in Khuzdul, then he led bride and groom each through their many vows. Each promised to cleave to the other, to honor one another with their words and bodies, and to weather all of life’s challenges side by side. They swore their hearts, and their lives, in service to one another. 

Then came the forging of the marriage beads. Typically, the couple would do so together, but since Saldís lacked any training or skill, it was Finnin who set the two cubes of gold he’d procured into specialized cups to melt, and it was Finnin who did the molding, hardening and forming of the beads. He painstakingly etched them with a fine-tipped object resembling an ice pick, his bare hands able to tolerate the still-hot orbs readily. He went first, choosing the rune for “raven” to grace Saldís’s bead. He added to it a possessive tilde with a sideways smirk. 

_“Bâhzundushuh,”_ he said for her ears alone. 

At her direction, he etched a less refined, more primal rune for the bead he would wear. Saldís had debated for days over its form. _My Heart, My Warrior, My All,_ each had been considered. In the end, she chose to simply say, “Mine.”

Finnin’s eyes heated hotter than the forge at her request, and he swooped in for a kiss, utterly ignoring Dori’s protests that they weren’t married quite yet, thank you very much. 

When he finally tore himself away, her warrior gave her a wink. He engraved the bead as she’d dictated. 

The dwarves in attendance began to sing the age-old wedding song about the marriage of their Mahal to his Yavanna. Saldís plaited a braid into the hair hanging from Finnin’s left temple, adding in a hushed voice words of praise for her love. She finished with the bead and a sense of joy. 

The song continued. Finnin unwound her courtship braid and reformed it. Strand by strand, he expanded it, turning it from a thin braid to one thicker in width than two of Saldís’s fingers. _The better to ensure unattached males know your status,_ Dori had explained when telling her what to expect. When Finnin had it completed to his satisfaction, he capped it with his bead. 

The song ended with a round of applause. They were wed. 

After that, Finnin and Saldís returned to the forge, this time on their children’s behalf. Both had determined to include their young ones in this event, so instead of beads already on hand, new ones were fashioned before the children’s eyes just as they’d seen done for their amâd and adâd. Thera wore the biggest, wateriest smile Saldis had ever seen when Finnin finished her braid, placed hands upon Thera’s shoulder, and presented her to their audience as his heir and eldest daughter. Anniah hid in Saldis’s skirts. Bifin, lacking sufficient hair, they simply held for all to see and formally claimed him. 

‘Twas a night of jocularity. There was more dancing and feasting. Bifur raised his goblet in a toast, and Bofur drank himself under the table. When the moon was full, Finnin led his new wife away. The children would remain with their ugmil’adad and uncles this night.

As promised, Finnin stripped to his trousers and performed the Dance of Marriage for her. His eyes were intent and burning as he stomped and twirled seductively around her, his chest glistening with sweat and the beat of his drum thrumming so mightily that Saldís heart sped up with the increasing tempo. By the time it ended, she was seconds away from attacking her mate, overcome with the need to touch him.

‘Twas later that night as they lay intertwined, Finnin’s heart beating a quieter, reassuring music she’d never tire of hearing, that all her life stretched out before her. Aye, there was much pain and heartache written by its threads, but there was a beauty to it too, one poignant in its moments of tenderness and love. She remembered her life trotting behind Adâd at Thorin’s hall. She remembered Bifur’s strength and belief in her when he’d come to her in the prisons of Dale. She even recalled his stubborn refusal to let her go when all of her crimes had come to light. 

All of it had been a gift, from start to finish, and she kissed the scar upon the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she whispered to Mahal, for surely it had been the dwarves’ creator who had been the Power behind her life. Who else?

But Lord Aulë had not shaped her life alone. He’d had a helper. 

As she basked in the love, joy and passion of this night, she couldn’t wait a second longer to thank him. 

Saldís slipped from bed, leaving her sleeping husband to snore. After shrugging into her robe, she tip-toed out the door, down the hall and into another room. There, Adâd slept, and Ciryan too. Saldís’s daughters, she laughed silently to discover, had mobbed their brother-turned-uncle. They sprawled across him bonelessly, one across his legs, the other draped across his chest. Bifin was with Dori, she assumed, for his bassinet was conspicuous in its absence. 

With eyes blurry with tears, Saldís sat on Bifur’s bed. Adâd instantly awakened. “Saldís?” he whispered, sitting up. “What is the matter?”

She hugged him, squeezing him as tightly as her arms could manage. Her adâd. Her protector and savior. 

“Saldís,” he said, his alarm growing. 

_“Men lananubukhs menu, Adâd,”_ she said in a voice shaking with tears. _“Men lananubukhs menu.”_

“I love you, too,” he said roughly, hugging her in return. “But what—?”

“I couldn’t wait to tell you. I wanted you to know that _I_ know. Without you, I wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t have Ciryan or Finnin or my children. I wouldn’t h-have _a-anything_ of worth. Thank you for being my Adâd. Thank you so much for taking me in and protecting me. Thank you for never giving up on me. I can n-never…” Her voice failed her. She tried again. “I can never thank you enough. _Men lananubukhs menu.”_

Bifur kissed her forehead. _“Men lananubukhs menu, Nathith.”_

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For neo-Khuzdul terms and translations, I’d like to thank both The Writer’s Life blog and David Salo of midgardsmal dot com. For Sindarin, I used arwen-undomiel dot com. Any mistakes are my own—I am in no ways an expert with the rich lore Tolkien provided us. I’d also like to give a shout out to the Dwarrow Scholar’s fabulous site for all the wonderful resources. I relied heavily upon his compilation for dwarf names minus those for Bofur and Bifur’s fathers. (I’d already “named” those two in my mind when doing Broken Ties and just couldn’t rename them lol.)
> 
> *For Khuzdul, I couldn't find translation for dung, so I created my own. It probably breaks all kinds of rules, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.


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